


"The Code of Love: Heartbreak is like binary code - If you're not 'the one', you feel like a 'zero'"

by SovietteNymphette



Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: AMAB Bloodhound (Apex Legends), Addiction, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Blood and Violence, Dissociation, Flashbacks, Heartache, Heartbreak, King's Canyon, M/M, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Parent/Child Incest, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Crypto, Pre-Season/Series 04, Psychological Trauma, Psychosis, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-01-06 01:30:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21218336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SovietteNymphette/pseuds/SovietteNymphette
Summary: Elliott Witt has perfected 'Mirage' - the mask he puts on to hide his scattered brain, broken heart and traumatic past. And so far it worked quite well, he perfected the art of fooling around to get attention, his flirty behaviour always top-notch, his jokes (somewhat) entertaining. Being one of the top legends of the Apex Games definitely made him proud, and the trickster certainly got along very well with (almost) every one of the participants. Hell yeah, he even made friends! Like, good friends. Excellent friends, who even like his absolutely incredible (in his humble opinion) pork chop recipe. Attention is what he is craving, and attention is what he is getting.But this - all this - is not Elliott Witt. This is Mirage.And while Mirage loves the spotlight, Elliott Witt craves the attention from only one person - the only person who does not even acknowledge his sad existence. At least that is what he believes.





	1. Silence

**Author's Note:**

> (Trigger warning: Next chapters might include disturbing content. Please keep that in mind. If you feel triggered at any point, stop reading. I do not want to cause any harm, or any bad feelings. If you want to talk about your own experiences, feel free to contact me. You're not alone. Tags added 30th. October for future chapters).
> 
> Ok, here we go: I love Apex and I totally ship Mirage and Bloodhound. I am a writer, usually writing poetry, non-fiction or fiction novels. But my love for fanfiction hasn't changed over the last years. That's no secret. This is going to be long, and I will update on a regular basis - at least twice a week.(Slow build up, slow, very slow) Tags will follow accordingly, however, as a warning upfront, there will be a lot about addiction, trauma, angst, depression and other mental illness related content. Of course that's not the main subject as this story will focus on love, relationship, and even sex. Yeah, it will get explicit at some point. I just feel so connected to Mirage, that's why it's mainly his POV.  
I've researched the Titanfall Universe quite a bit, however, since many things are pretty unclear, it's not completely based on it. Please feel free any mistakes that might occur.
> 
> I write from experience and try to capture it in words, so my experience with alcohol abuse, drug addiction, etc. might be different than anybody else's. I hope you'll enjoy nevertheless.

**Silence.**

The only thing he wished for this bleak and dreary night was just _silence_ \- quite unusual for the otherwise attention-seeking and spotlight lover that he usually was (or pretended to be - something he would never admit, though). No loud cheering from fans, no annoying and irritating questions by half-witted journalists, and most of all, no interactions or whatsoever with any other participants or legends of the Apex Games. Not tonight. Just not tonight.

_Please. Make it stop. Make it fucking stop._

The buzzing and irritating sound in his ears became louder and louder. It painfully reminded him that even his little wish for silence had not come true. The ringing in his ears just wouldn't stop, and he tried to remember when it had started. In the morning? During the games? Or later that night ...? He felt lightheaded and weak.

The tinnitus made him nauseous, more than the countless shots of whiskeys with rum chasers he had drunk at a run-down, shabby bar, far away from where he lived, far away from the other legends. He remembered walking, almost running, through the busy streets where people flowed like rivers, never stopping for obstacles but swirling around them. He couldn't remember how long he was looking for a place to drown his sorrow, nor did he recall how he ended up in this fucked up bar. But when he had found that place, he was sure (or at least had tried to convince himself) that no fans nor participants of the Apex Games would ever set foot in such a _shithole_. To his luck, he was right (and quite frankly, that was not often the case, especially when he's had _'a few drinks now and then'_ ).

In that place, he could have been **anyone**, or perhaps **no-one** at all. Not a single soul had recognised the legend. He wasn't sure if anyone had even noticed him entering that place as everyone was too busy downing their drinks. No loud chatter. No laughter. Only grunting and gulping. Cigarette smoke twisting in an almost artistic way, forming curls in the gloom, illuminated only by the age-speckled and flickering bar lights.

> We drink in silence. Hoping that the answer lies at the bottom of the glass. And then the bottom of the bottle, then the next bottle and the next.

"W- what a joke..." slurring his word, he remembered what that idiot of a bartender had told him when he had sat down on an old bench in the corner, away from anyone's sight.

As the night dragged on, only a few words had been exchanged between him and the bartender. Words that were slurred and senseless. Not that it mattered now as he couldn't remember the rest of the conversation - if you could call it that. Did he, himself, even talk? Did he say anything? While he was trying to remember, his mind wandered off, suddenly reminding him that he should - _must_ \- get into his apartment before anyone could notice the pitiful state he currently was in. The crippling, horrible buzzing sound in his ears made it just so goddamn hard to focus. _So much about silence, huh?_

Fumbling with his keys, desperately trying to find the right ones to open his fucking door, he realised that his fingers were numb from the long walk home, dawn light already kissing the clouds, birds chattering in the distant. The night had been cold - **_freezing_** \- a sensation he didn't feel until he entered the big compound, where all top legends resided. The empty halls and metallic walls made him shiver even more.

_So fucking cold._

It felt like the sterile surrounding heightened his sensation as if his body temperature would equal the cold metallic walls. Was it always that cold in here? He remembered how dark the sky had been, the air had been so chilled it hurt to breathe. Why did he only just realise that?

Minutes passed.

He stared down at his pale, rough fingers, his vision blurred, his mind anaesthetised. He felt paralysed, his hands not working as he wished, nor his fingers. The keys in his hands - and there were only three - seemed to multiply the longer he stared at them.

At this point, he couldn't even remember why he had that many keys in the first place, nor what the other two key were for. He felt a sudden rush of anger as to why he hadn't marked them. He could have even used some green or yellow (his favourite colours, oh, he **_loved_ **green and yellow) nail polish to paint them, but that idea had never occurred to him before. Why now? He shrugged, considering if green and yellow were actually his favourite colours. Was it just green? Or only yellow? Or neither? Green, definitely green. No, maybe yellow. Green-yellow.

Yes. _Green-yellow._ His new favourite colour was green-yellow. Did that colour even exist? Or did he just invent it? He grinned, thinking he just developed a new colour, not being aware that mixing those colours would only result in some sort of lime green (and of course that already existed). But his brain had turned to mush this night, he had no control over what his mind was thinking of like it was just a void filled with loud and obnoxious garbage.

He let out a deep sigh and thought about the keys again. Why weren't they using key cards anyway? Why use stupid, old locks for that otherwise highly modernised building? His mind kept on going and going, until -

** _Laughter._ **

He panicked, slightly regaining functions of his body again, when he heard an outburst of laughter echoing through the halls. Who the fuck was awake at this time (he didn't know what time it actually was)?

He had lost complete track of time. It was now 8 am in the morning, and naturally, people would be awake by now. How long had he been standing here? Was it already that 'late' when he arrived here? His mind wandered off again, but he became increasingly more and more anxious as the laughter and chatter became louder.

Pumped with adrenaline, he managed to unlock the door to his apartment, almost falling over his own, wobbly feet. He quickly shut the door and leaned with his back against it, letting out a deep breath. He could smell the harsh scent of the booze. He became aware of how dry his mouth felt after all the drinking and smoking - and yes, he did smoke, just no one should know about this nasty behaviour, as he thought. Like if smoking would be the actual problem. (And no, it didn't cross his mind in the slightest that his drinking was actually** a massive fucking** problem. Not marking his keys in green-yellow seemed to be more of a dilemma for him - oh yeh, green-yellow. Beautiful colour.)

His already trembling knees suddenly released, causing him to collapse and sliding down the door rapidly. He hit the ground hard. Like, really fucking hard. Ignoring the pain, the only thing his scattered brain could think about why the floor wasn't made out of cushions and cotton candy. Green-yellow cotton candy.

_Wait, what?_

Sitting there, his aching back leaning against the door, he somewhat realised that his thoughts didn't make sense. Or did they? His brows furrowed as he was seriously thinking about his ridiculous (or genius - he wasn't sure) ideas. He laughed. Cotton candy. He laughed louder. And louder.

But his laughter turned into crying. With the little control he had over his body, he tried to cover his mouth with his trembling hands, tears running down his rosy, cold cheeks, leaving a burning sensation. Why was he crying? He hadn't cried in years, quite the opposite. Why now? _**Why?**_

His mind stopped. Like a switch was abruptly turned off. His face turned paler than a sheet of paper, his body suddenly lathered in sweat. With his hands still covering his mouth, he tried everything in his power to ignore the waves of nausea that added to his misery. His stomach lurched and gurgled. He gagged several times, his vision wavering.

_Bathroom._

He needed to release this gut-wrenching feeling, his stomach was now achingly cramping.

_Bathroom._

But it was too late. His stomach contracted so violently that he had no time to get up. Leaning forward, he could feel a mix of booze and stomach acid bursting through his fingers that still covered his mouth, practically choking him. As he leaned forward the last of it dribbled from his lips, and his stomach turned over one more time. The floor was now sprayed, and so was he. Vomit still running down his face, fingers, covering his lower body. It was just everywhere.  
  


** _Cotton candy._ **

  
His eyes widened, and he puked again, ignoring the disgusting scent and mess he made all over himself for a moment.

He leaned back. Vomiting was already nasty, but actually looking at it now made it much worse. Hot tears spilt from his eyes. In a short, lucid moment, he became aware of the fact that he could not get up or move forward without stepping on his own puke. He felt weak, his throat sore. And there was no-one to fetch him a glass of water, help him up, or clean up the mess.

He was alone. No, not just alone. _**He was alone and lonely**_. And there it was. The dreading feeling that he tried to avoid so hard. They say the pain dulls with time and that things will get better. But do they? He thought about his brothers. About his mother. How homesick he suddenly felt. How he missed his brothers. But that was not the only reason he felt so lonely and broken. He felt _worse_. He felt heartbroken, so goddamn heartbroken.

> "Your poor trust led to a poor end."

**Bloodhound.**

His eyes closed, his arms went numb, his body limb. All the tension and pain seemed to have vanished. He lost complete control over his body, no feeling no smell. Like a sack of meat and bones.

And suddenly -

Silence.


	2. Shadows of the past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight trigger warning (PTSD, Trauma, implied abuse, dissociation).  
This chapter was a bit of a struggle, have to admit that. Sounds better in my head than on paper, however, I try my best to make it the least confusing for all you beautiful readers out there <3  
So some clarification:  
"..." - used for actual talking  
'...' (in italics) - voice(s) in Elliott's head talking to him (will be elaborated in future chapters)  
>"..." (in italics) - Things that have been said in the past to him  
>... (in italics) - Flashbacks (mostly dialogue too).  
Text in italics - Either Elliott thinking to himself, talking to himself in his head, or also used for some facts (like, the time, for example), or to emphasise things. I know, confusing, but bear with me, it's kinda the point. (God, very confusing).

Elliott slowly opened his swollen, bloodshot eyes to the dimly lit room. Though it was already past noon, he always kept his dark grey blinds closed. Just in case some gossip-hungry paparazzi would secretly try to get some embarrassing pictures or videos with the stupid drones they used nowadays. This was such a case. If anyone would see or even get a glimpse on this fucked up mess - no, right now he didn't even want to think about it. 'Mirage: Truth exposed' would be a great headline for a tabloid newspaper. Dim-witted readers all over Solace and the Outlands would go nuts.

_No. Stop. Stop thinking. No thinking._

He banged his head against the door. Might help.

_'Or just make it worse, you fucking moron.'_

Well, at least he stopped thinking as he became aware of his cracking headache, his brain felt like it would swell far beyond the capacity of his skull. He let out a deep sigh, almost like a whimper, and his dehydration was now too obvious to ignore. He tilted his head to his left shoulder, brushing away the layer of dehydrated saliva that coated his cracked lips.

His throat felt like sandpaper, the taste of vomit lingering in his mouth. Oh, how intoxicating the taste of last night's (was it last night?) drinks was, now it just left that foul taste in his mouth. Looking down on him, he abruptly became aware of how much of a mess he made last night. He was still covered in his own puke, his fingers feeling sticky and, yeah, just gross. His stomach cramped, the fact that he was sitting in his own sick did not help with an upcoming feeling of nausea.

"Thank God I didn't eat anything...," he murmured to himself, realising that he only puked up all the booze. _What a waste_, he thought at the same time, not knowing if he should laugh at his own joke or not.

He knew deep down inside of him that he was really goddamn hungover, though he didn't want to acknowledge it. Sure, he had been drinking now and then, even in his own bar, but a hangover? Nah, not a chance. He never had one, so he wasn't hungover right now, he was just feeling a little poorly. And after years of abusing alcohol and indeed countless blackouts and hangovers, he managed to convince himself that this had never happened to him nor will it ever. What a trickster, who tricked himself into believing that he wasn't an alcoholic. Since he barely remembered last night and was sure that he only had like 3 or maybe 4 shots of whiskey, his 'condition' must have been caused by a stomach bug, or even the flu. Yeh that must be it. He nodded.

He was, however, in desperate need of a glass of water - or really anything liquid - to relieve his aching throat and thirst. Once on his feet, the room swayed, almost causing him to lose his balance. He reached out for the wall trying to regain his balance. His hands slipped slightly among the plain walls, causing him to stumble, but not fall. After a few seconds, he managed to stand completely still, well, as still as he could.

_Must have been a fun night._

Despite the throbbing pain in his head and his mildly blurred vision, Elliott didn't feel bad. He couldn't really describe how he was feeling, but he had certainly felt this way before, mostly after some pretty damn good nights out with his friends. Or after some one-night stands with some strangers that Elliott picked up in many of the countless nightclubs. He'd say he was feeling quite good, even though he was unable to recall last night's events at all. He didn't feel the need to, anyway. Feeling good was enough for him right now.

But was he _actually_ feeling good (or just pretending, lying to himself again)?

Man, how he wished he was in his early twenties again. Going out and getting shitfaced without the terrible after-effects, oh how he missed these days.

_'Stop.'_

He didn't want to admit – acknowledge - that he was feeling like utter rubbish right now. If he did, he would admit that his drinking had become progressively worse with each passing year. And that would mean he ...

_'Stop thinking. All good. All is pretty goddamn good.'_

He stumbled along the wall and made his way through the living room, trying to get into his bedroom, but the couch seemed more appealing to him. He could just sleep it off, maybe take some painkillers, or ...

He dropped onto the sofa like a lifeless body.

* * *

Waking up can be really harsh, especially if your dreams are far better than reality. But the loud banging on the door made Elliott wake up abruptly, no slow warming up. Within seconds of realising that he had passed out on his couch, he was back on his feet, eyes wide open, dreams not just forgotten but erased. What...

**Knock. Knock. Knock.**

He could tell that it was now night again, his apartment pitch black. How long had he been asleep for?

"I know you're in there, open the door before I force myself in d'ya hear me?" a familiar voice hollered from the other side of his door.

It took him a few moments to recognise that it was Ajay.

_Fuck. FUCK._

No way he could let anyone into his apartment before cleaning up all the mess. Before cleaning up himself. He was totally sober by now, disgusted by himself, by his surroundings, bothered about what had happened, and this time he didn't even try to pretend or lie to himself that his drinking got out of hand (only for a brief moment, though). No time for that now. No one was supposed to see him like this. Not even Ajay, who, he thought, might have noticed some of his odd behaviours in the past (but he was sure she had no clue that he was not just weird, but far worse).

He stormed to the door and almost slipped as it was still wet and covered in vomit. He stood still for a moment, thinking about what to do.

"Aight', I'm coming in!"

Elliott opened the door slightly, just enough for her to not look behind him.

"Hey sexy!" he cheered with a big fat grin on his lips, trying his hardest to keep himself collected. "What gives me the pleasure that late?"

"Don't ya dare to try to fool me, Elliott," she snarled, leaning with one hand on his door. "No one's seen you all day long, you've missed the training, something ain't right whit ya" she sounded less angry and more worried now.

"Missed me much, huh? Can't blame you," he winked at her.

Ignoring his shallow and flirtatious comment, she continued "Boy, you look rough and quite frankly, you don't smell particularly nice. Whatcha been up to this time?"

_This time. _

He panicked. This time. What was that supposed to mean? Did she know? What did she know? How could she?

"Earth to Elliott," she interrupted his thought process.

"Think I've caught something, needed some rest, I'm fine now, though. Like, really. I'm cool."

"Lemme check on ya then, that's why I'm here for anyway."

"Nah I'm feeling exca...exci... look I'm feeling much better now, I'm feeling good. No need for your help, doc."

Ajay let out a deep sigh. She knew how stubborn Elliott could be, and after today's intense training, she decided to give him a pass.

"Aight', but just so ya know, you better be fit for tomorrow's game, I'll be on your team, and I can't babysit ya, got it?"

On his team. That didn't make sense. He's always been with Wraith and Pathfinder ever since he entered the Apex Games, why not this time? What had changed? Maybe both Wraith and Pathfinder had enough of his sometimes somewhat annoying behaviour, but still - they'd won quite a few games, well, quite a lot to be honest. Was he too flirty? Too loud? Too obnoxious? He recalled Wraith being angry at him from time to time, but always quite happy after they'd won a game. Plus he considered her a good friend, even though she had said before that he was an 'egomaniac seeking to further his selfish goals'. He always took things like that as a compliment on his charisma, but maybe he was completely wrong.

Ajay noticed Elliot’s confused look and simply stated, "teams got shuffled up, ya know, more spice for the viewers. So, get some rest, I doubt Bloodhound would be pleased if you turned up in that state."

_No. Fucking. Way._

"Bloodhound?" Elliott's eyes widened, and his jaw dropped, leaving his mouth open, barely visible through the dimly lit halls. But enough light for Ajay to notice.

She rolled her eyes, almost in annoyance. But since Elliott had missed the training and the following meeting, she felt like she owed him an explanation.

"Look, the three top legends could pick their team ya know, so they picked first. And they specifically demanded you to be on their team," the young woman said, calmly. "Then they chose me, probably to babysit ya sorry ass, after all." She sighed after that realisation.

Before Elliott was able to utter any response, she turned away from his door and waved. "Now do me a favour and get some rest, 'night!" Her voice returned back to normal, sounding cheery as usual.

Elliott watched her leave before closing his door shut, making sure it was locked. His hands were shaking, still holding firmly onto the handle, his forehead tilted forwards and now resting on the cold surface of his door.

Time stood still. And for once, Elliott's mind remained utterly silent. That was a first.

_Caw_!

The sudden loud noise made Elliott jump in surprise and shock. He quickly turned around, trying to figure out where it came from, his eyes, however, were not adjusted to the darkness in his apartment. All he could see was pitch black.

_Caw_!

The noise sounded deep and throaty. And close, very close. Panic set in and Elliott wondered if anyone - or anything - had entered his apartment without him noticing. But how? He held onto his walls to find his way back into the living room, rays of moonlight shining through the window blinds. The soft, shimmering glow gave him a direction in what would otherwise be a maze of impenetrable blackness.

The silence was deafening, only contributing to his feeling of paranoia and panic. His senses sharpened. Then - a sudden, percussive rustle.

His head turned abruptly to his tilted windows.

His eyes stared at each blind, each opening. And then he stopped.

A tiny, dark silhouette appeared in between the blinds, a pair of small, red glowing eyes staring directly at him. Almost unnoticeable. A harsh, gurgling croak rising in pitch broke the silence, followed by the hasty sound of flapping wings clinking against the windows.

_A raven._

Seeming like the raven only waited for Elliott to notice its presence, it disappeared. Elliott didn't move and mindlessly stared at the place the raven had been sitting, shivers running down his spine. Although others might perceive him as simple-minded, he was anything but that. Elliott knew that this was no coincidence. He knew who the raven belonged to. The only thing he couldn't figure out was the _WHY._

Why did Bloodhound _demand_ that he was on their team?

Why did Ajay appear in the middle of the night to check on him?

And for God's sake, _WHY_ did Bloodhound send his goddamn raven at the same time?

It didn't make any sense. It didn't make any goddamn sense. Should he be scared now? Frightened? Intimidated? Or was it _really_ just coincidence - or was he not even awake and just dreaming? Instinctively he pinched his arm to see if he was asleep - "Please let me be asleep," he whispered to himself - but the sudden sharp pain made him realise that he was anything but sleeping.

Elliott stumbled back and dropped on his sofa, his elbows resting on his knees, his face buried deep in his hands. Saying he was confused was an understatement. He felt almost delusional, thoughts trundling through his brain like a train with no intention of stopping. He could have sat there for ages, but all of a sudden, his stomach growled, making him squirm. The sudden realisation that he hadn't eaten in like over what, two days or even more, brought him back to reality. He was hungry, no, almost _starving_.

It was then that Elliott glanced at his watch for the first time in ages to check what time (and _geez_, even day) it was.

_00:56am  
Sunday, October 23rd_

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" he growled, noticing his dry and cracked lips. It hurt to speak, that's how dehydrated he was by now. And that came as no surprise - he remembered leaving his apartment on Friday night, however, everything that happened after was clouded and blurry. But since it was already past midnight on a Sunday - he realised he must have slept through the whole of Saturday. Jesus fucking Christ. And for a short moment - a really brief moment - he acknowledged that all this happened because he couldn't control his drinking (that was, however, just a passing thought, that he tried to ignore).

_'Forget it. Don't think about it. It's all sunshine and rainbows. Nothing out of the ordinary. All cool.'_

Reassuring himself helped him get up on his feet to grab something to eat and drink. He certainly couldn't be bothered to cook something for himself (although the thought of his delicious pork chops made his mouth water), so instead, he decided to go for a ham sandwich that had been lying around in his fridge for quite some time_. That will do... _again, talking to himself, reassuring. A habit he had developed as a young child, talking to himself felt like talking to his best friend. Except ... that he never had a best friend. Or a friend. Or even fucking anyone to talk to. He had considered (and tried, like, many, many times) to converse with his decoys, but that felt more insane than just talking to himself. Wait a second.

"Am I insane?" he said out loud, perplexed. He giggled. "I'm nuts". Maybe he was. Maybe he wasn't. He certainly wasn't in the right stage of mind to come to a conclusion, given the fact that he was still standing in front of the open fridge, holding his sandwich in his hand. Maybe he was just sleep-deprived. He furrowed his eyebrows before slamming the door of the refrigerator shut. "I can't be fucking sleep depre... depra... geeeeeeeez TIRED," he fumed, feeling a sudden rush of anger building up inside of him. _'Maybe you slept too much'_ stated a calm voice in his head, making him nod. Thankfully he didn't get stuck on the question as to why his own voice (was it, though, his own?) in his head would address him directly like it was an actual person talking to him. But it calmed him down, his anger faded.

He ate his sandwich in three bites, poured himself some water and downed that quickly too (although he wished it wasn't water, he really did). After a couple more glasses, his thirst was quenched, and his stomach had stopped cramping, albeit still slightly snarling. He would have breakfast soon, no biggie then.

As he left the kitchen heading towards his bedroom, it dawned on him that he still had to clean the goddamn mess he had made. He'd order one of the cleaning robots for that in the morning - again, no biggie. However, he realised he had to take a shower, like, right now. He gagged. He had eaten his sandwich before washing his hands, which were still coated with his own puke. How on earth didn't he think about that before?

_'_ _You're filthy.'_

Ignoring the voice in his head, he quickly undressed on his way to the bathroom, leaving his messy clothes scattered all around his place. He knew it was late and that the games on Sunday would start at 10 am, but he had slept enough. A short nap after a shower would do. _'Don't forget to set the alarm'_, the voice muttered, and again, he nodded, completely naked now. He stepped into the shower. _'Don't forget to set the alarm'_.

"Ok, ENOUGH," he growled. "I'll set a fucking alarm, happy now?" rambling to himself he quickly stepped back out of the shower, grabbed his phone that was on the floor as the rest of his clothes and set the alarm for 8 am. He ignored all the notifications on his screen and locked his phone, dropping it on the floor. He could go through all the messages tomorrow. Or any other day. Didn't matter. At least his mind shut up for once now, after all, he did what he was told to._ By whom? _

He shrugged, completely ignoring the fact that he clearly showed signs of mental illness (he'd never admit that, though).

_‘Shower’_

Oh yeah. He almost forgot. He hopped back into the shower, his toes flinching this time as they touched the chilled ceramic floor. "On," he commanded, and the shower turned on, with perfect pressure and temperature. One of the many perks’ legends had - showers with voice commands. No fumbling around, no ice cold or burning hot water, just a nice, relaxing shower simply controlled by one word. _Genius,_ he thought.

The water poured down on him, head first, slowly covering his whole body, washing away all the dirt and filth. The sensation of the steamy water calmed him down, his mind fading into dullness. Everything was a foggy illusion, and he felt like standing under an everlasting waterfall.

_Bloodhound_

Elliott closed his eyes, slightly leaning forward now, holding onto the wall with his left arm.

_BLOODHOUND_

Elliott started sobbing. It was just too much, all of it. Being completely sober, he clearly remembered how Bloodhound had defeated him, what he had said to him, how he hadn't even shown the smallest sign of respect or acknowledgement for him. It hurt. It hurt so goddamn much that he had to drown his sorrow in alcohol, leading to this _chaos_. But then, why, why in God's name would Bloodhound demand him to be on their team? Why did they send their raven? It couldn't just be out of spite. Or mockery. Oh my, up to now, Elliott had been sure that Bloodhound didn't give a single fuck about him, that he was just another insect they could crush (although that sounded more like Caustic, in all fairness) or another unworthy prey they could hunt down. But.

_>'They demanded you to be on their team.'_

Elliott's eyes widened, his heart began to pound in his chest, skin flushing warm, and then unbearably hot. Bloodhound couldn't harm him while being on the same team. They couldn't hunt him down. Sure, they could mock him, or even embarrass him, but _why?_ Again, it made no sense. They had never really interacted with each other before, Elliott tried to stay away from them as far as he could, albeit trying to get a glimpse of them at any possible chance (hoping they wouldn't notice). He feared them. He respected them. He craved them. He _loved_ them. And oh Lord how madly in love he was. It hurt. It had left him hurting for quite some time, his heart bleeding out in an eternity of emptiness. But right now, he felt more than just the pain. He felt... **_lust_**.

_They demanded._

Elliott couldn't help but biting his bottom lip, the water still cascading across his aching body.

_Demanded_.

He let out a deep moan, breath burned in his lungs, begging to escape. He hated to admit it, but he was extremely aroused by now, all negative thoughts and feelings put aside like they had never been there in the first place. He watched the water drops running down his bruised, beaten, yet muscular and defined body. He leaned back for support, his eyes slipped closed, feeling an unfamiliar yet burning desire to touch himself. He could feel his whole body heating up, pleasure spreading through his chest.

It wasn't like he had never touched himself before, of course, he had. Many times. But it had never felt right, nor pleasurable. It was more like an animalistic instinct to relieve stress, to unwind, or to make his mind simply shut up. And if he had felt the need to do it, he'd just plainly wank. No fantasies, no imagination involved, nor would he touch any other part of his body. And he had his reasons. He felt embarrassed, almost disgusted by his own body.

_Bloodhound_

Images of the hunter flashed before his shut eyes. Their attire. Their demeanour. The way they talked, moved... Elliott released a throaty groan, body arcing, head jerking against the shower wall behind him.

His hands were working down his chest now, sliding along his abs in a way that actually _teased_ him. His fingers (and how he'd loved that they belonged to Bloodhound) coming dangerously close to his length. He swallowed hard, his mind melting away with the water. The sensation of the slightly hot water (just as Elliott loved it) leaving fiery hot trails on his susceptible skin. Hands roamed his own body without any hesitation now, exploring every inch of skin. He would moan when he touched sensitive parts - parts of him that he wasn't even aware of being that delicate.

He was already close, he could feel it. He could feel the heat burning from inside, outside building up. His hands reached lower, briefly touching the head of his now fully erect length. Briefly. Elliott's eyes opened abruptly, his pupils dilated. His lungs were burning in his chest and he was desperately gasping for air. It felt like all life got sucked out of him all of a sudden.

_No. No. No. NO._

He felt like as if he was suffocating. Every inch of skin he had touched before was hurting as if someone would cut deeper and deeper into his flesh with a razor blade. His body wracked with unpleasant shivers, and for a moment he struggled to stand, his body only being supported by the chill shower wall he was leaning against. Every single muscle in his body stiffened.

_>Don't you like it, Eli? _

Moans being replaced by sobs.

_>Doesn't it make you feel good? _

His body slumped down.

_>Oh, honey, believe me, no one will make you feel as good as I do. _

"Off," he stammered, and the shower turned off, hot steam still filling the air. Mindlessly, Elliott stood up abruptly, opening the shower door and reaching for the cupboard near the sink. With fast movements and shaky fingers, he roamed through his stuff until he found what he was looking for.

_Valium_.

One pill. And another. And one last one.

It all happened quickly. Elliott dragged himself into the bedroom without drying himself with a towel and threw himself onto his bed, naked and wet. Curling up, knees pulled to his chest, he wrapped his arms around his trembling legs.

_Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock._

The clock was painfully loud, but he only had to wait for the Valium to fully kick in. He'd feel better. All would be good. All cool (albeit in denial, he had been doped up with Valium numerous times before). He would sleep, forget about everything and be himself again. And by himself, he meant Mirage, the funny, witty, and oh so charming holographic trickster everyone loved. Well, some had loved him more than they should have. And others had no love for him at all.

As the Valium slowly kicked in, he failed to comprehend what caused him to cry more. The ever so dark looming shadows of his traumatic past, or ... the painful feeling of loving someone who didn't even know about his intense love for them. Him touching himself over someone who mocked his defeat made him cry out even louder, despite desperately trying to contain a caging scream rumbling within his ribcage with shaking hands placed over his mouth. Elliott heard his breath fluttering, trapped inside his lungs. 

_>I love you, Eli. _

"Please," he whispered into the dark.

_>I love your taste, my dear._

"S...Stop..."

_>Only I can love you like that, Eli. You know that yes? You've been such a good boy..._

Elliott's eyes rolled to the back of his head. Flashbacks hitting him hard, panic clattering in his mind. He twisted to the left. To the right.

_>Here we go, darling. Have your cotton candy. I know how much you love it, you deserve it. _

To his surprise, Elliott smiled, Valium clouding his head now. Cotton candy. Bloodhound. Trust. End. He couldn't hold a thought anymore. Love. Hate. Love. Hate. Pain.

There's no such thing. Love means pain, either way. The love he felt now, love he had experienced before, it's torture.

Images of his past appearing and disappearing in front of his eyes. Disturbing images. Traumatic images. With the little focus he had left thanks to the effects of the Valium, he tried to concentrate on something pleasant. Something beautiful. _Someone_ beautiful.

Bloodhound. Or Bloth, as they introduced themselves the first time they met. Truly beautiful. Pure. Despite all the gear and their intimidating mask, Elliott knew that they were the most beautiful being he had ever laid his eyes on.

With that thought in mind, darkness finally embraced him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Puh, nightshifts drain my energy, and getting my thoughts together wasn't as easy as I thought. Already working on the next chapters, too many ideas travelling through my mind :) I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Thanks for all the kudos and feedback, highly appreciated <3 I've edited this chapter like, yeah, a dozen times, so I'm certain there are quite a few mistakes in there (spelling, grammar, you know) - working as a writer, journalist and editor makes it so hard to edit your own writing. I'll hope to find a beta-reader, I'll try! Much love xx


	3. I give a life, I don't taka.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised more "Mirage" but ended up having so many "Elliott" moments. It even confused me! But by now it's clear that Elliott's mind works differently. So it has to be confusing, yet, readable and understandable. Does that make sense? Oh my.  
Oh, and finally, Wraith is here. And yes, I see Wraith and Mirage as like BFFs. In their own way.

Elliott let out a small noise of agony laced with the desire to fade away into arms not present and never wake. He remembered loneliness like a familiar cloak of a crowded room and heavy eyes staring out from glasses of whiskey and scotch. He shivered and rose up, stretching sore muscles with trembling wrists. His eyes ached as he glanced at the bright, green neon colour of his old alarm clock.

_7.47 am _

_Not bad_, he thought, almost a little proud that he managed to get up earlier than he had intended to (ignoring the fact that he had slept a whole day prior). He quickly pushed his legs through a pair of jeans discarded on the floor at the end of the bed, dragging them around his hips with a sharp tug.

_Breathe. _

He felt his heart beating irregularly fast and wasn't sure whether it was from getting up so quickly or ...

_'No, that's over and done with. Today's today. Concentrate,'_ an alarming voice in Elliott's head interrupted his thought process.

"First things first," he said, feeling the tension in his body slowly releasing. He stood still, head tilted. "Um ... what's the first thing then?" he asked himself, not caring how absurd the conversation with himself must sound to others.

The sudden, blaring sound of his alarm on his phone echoing through his apartment made him jump and somewhat helped him to buck up his ideas. He recalled setting the alarm for 8 am on his phone, because...

**"FUCK"** he shouted now, rushing through his apartment and into the bathroom, turning off the irritating sound. _**The Game!** _

_2 hours left. _

He could do that. He could pull himself together and get there on time, maybe with a quick breakfast (Tea and biscuits would be fucking nice right now, maybe pancakes?), and… He glanced at the mirror, hollow eyes staring right back him. He looked utterly wrecked, defeated, shaking and trembling. Elliott let out a muffled groan.

_2 hours._

* * *

"Mirage is here to save the day!" Grinning from ear to ear, he entered the meeting point for the dropship in the east wing of the compound, crumbles of biscuits he grabbed on the way still sticking to his beard.

_Smack! _

"Ouch!" Elliott cried out as he felt the sudden sharp pain, his own hands covering his left cheek now. "That fucking hurt!"

"Then be happy I didn't use my fist, dumb ass," the woman replied, coldly, yet intimidating, "I'm _so_ looking forward to blowing your brains out today." Wraith let out a deep sigh, sounding particularly frustrated today. And Elliott (well, kind of) knew she had every right to be frustrated. Especially at him.

"Hey, hey, I'll make up for it, ok?" Elliott's hands raised up in front of him now, slightly waving in defence. He smiled at Wraith, nervously.  
"Make up for what?" She replied, annoyed.  
"Well, you know, because, yeah, um..." Elliott paused, eyes furrowed, thinking. He studied his friends' face carefully, her eyes were twitching in anticipation. What exactly made her that angry?  
  
He had known Wraith since, oh well, like pretty much day one, they had bumped into each other the day new participants were chosen. He recalled that she had punched him that day because he literally ran into her headfirst, causing her to fall and hitting her head on the concrete floor. She hadn't struck him hard, just enough to show her anger, but the look on Elliott's face (and in that very moment he looked like a panic-stricken child running away from something _genuinely monstrous_) made Wraith see behind Elliott's facade for the first time. Maybe that was the reason both had felt an immediate connection between.  
  
Throughout the years Elliott had learned not to mess with her, because her anger often resulted in rage, hard to control, like, very hard. But still, even when he had messed up and apologised afterwards (he lost count on how many times, actually), she had always forgiven him. Even now, he still feared her outbursts though, albeit he could easily overpower her, but never wanted to, never dared to. Not that he was afraid of her in particular. Just... more afraid _of women_ in general. Elliott usually disguised his fear with being flirty, sometimes extremely flirty (and goddamn annoying, almost comical). He wasn't sure if Wraith had seen past that odd behaviour, since she had never questioned as to why he seemed to love to flirt with every woman, but was mortified of them touching him (except, well, when he had a _little bit _to drink, none of his one-night-stands happened without booze).   
  
Although he had never said anything to her (or even considered mentioning anything about his past, _fuck no_), she somehow had this creepy ability to _sense_ things. Things like ... fear. Anxiety. Distress. Elliott wished that he was just a weirdo in Wraith's eyes and that she had learned how to deal with his quirks. He sincerely hoped that he had never shared any of - what he considered _shameful_ \- experiences of his past with her - especially on occasional nights out (how could he anyway, the famous lover boy only had a few drinks now and then, _oh the lies!_). And surely she would have mentioned it by now, right? (He could imagine her saying something like _'Spare me with your stupid psychobabble'_).

And to be fair, Elliott had to give Wraith a lot of credit. No matter how annoyed, angry, or _really goddamn_ pissed she was at him for whatever reason (and there were quite many), and no matter how often she had felt the need to punch the life out of him, she had never laid hands on him again after the very first time she had hit him. While Elliott believed that Wraith might just think of him as someone who just doesn't want to fight women in general (except during matches, when he had to, but that didn't really count). In reality, Elliott had no clue (or really tried hard lying to himself) that Wraith had seen much more of him that very first day, so much, that it had broken her heart. And still did.

Elliott was utterly lost in his thoughts, still staring at Wraith with his hazel-brown eyes, looking somewhat disorientated, empty. His lips pressed into thin lines. He must have hurt her or done something terrible recently to make her that furious - he just couldn't figure out what it was that caused her rage (well, he was convinced it must have happened over the weekend, the weekend he'd rather not talk or think about anymore).

"Don't you fucking tell me you don't even know what you're apologising for!" She suddenly hissed, taking a step closer to him, narrowing down the space between them. He was already terrified, but by entering his personal space, he felt extremely uncomfortable and uneasy.

"I was, um, like, you know, um ..." another pause. "I mean of course I know, like, I'm sorry, look, I'm sorry that ..."

** _To all participants of today's Games, please regroup and find your way to the dropship. We'll be leaving in 5. Thank you. _ **

Startled by the blasting sound of the announcement, Elliott let out a deep sigh of relief. He could talk to her after the match, with enough time to think about what to say. Man, he could even cook her some pork chops to soothe her angry soul. Wraith, on the other hand, let out a muffled groan of heat and fury. Her cheeks were deep red, her eyes still narrowed, skin paler as usual. Her hands, Elliott noticed, still clenched to fists, her body stiff. "Consider us enemies from now on," she cursed before turning her back on him, regrouping with her new teammates Wattson and Gibraltar.

_>'Enemies...'_

Her words lingered in his minds, and he could feel his whole body tense up. Sure, she could have meant enemies _during_ the match as the teams had been shuffled up, but the way she had said it sent shivers down his spine. Had he just lost, like, his only 'friend'? Elliot wasn't even sure if Wraith had ever considered him a friend, he'd always had the impression that he was more of a nuisance to her. An _acquaintance_, maybe, who she had to put up with from the very beginning. He had never dared to ask if they were actually friends (and yes, he was aware of the fact that things like that do not need to be asked, you just feel it, know it, but he had never been sure with her). For a moment, Elliot could feel how much her words had hurt him, he wished she would have smacked him again, as that would have been less painful (and that meant a lot, considering the fact that being touched by a woman in any way shape or form was a nightmare to him).

_'Good job, Witt,'_ the voice in his head lulled, almost mocking him. He could feel himself tearing up.

"Nice you made it, I was actually worried you wouldn't get your ass out of bed today, ya know?" Ajay. Lifeline. _Oh, what?_ _Wait a second._

Elliott only **just** realised that he was nowhere near as close to Ajay as he was to Wraith, still, he had never called Wraith by her real name. _**Why? **_

Ajay tapped him friendly on his shoulder (which he hated, screaming _'please don't touch me'_ in his head every single fucking time she had done it, but over time he got used it, well, somewhat used to it).

"Oh, come on, do you think so low of me? I'd never leave you hanging, love." How pathetic he must have sounded right now, but Ajay didn't notice. Or didn't show. He wasn't sure. He hadn't been sure of many things as of recently.  
"Time to go, big mouth," she cheered, facing away from him, pointing towards the dropship.  
"Bloodhound's waiting for us."  
  
_**Panic.** _  
  
Elliott glanced over the younger legend's shoulder, and there they were. Fidgeting with their sharp, pointy knife at the entrance of the dropship, polishing it like expensive china. He could have sworn that they were staring at him, albeit it was hard to tell with that horrific mask they wore that resembled a doctor during the plague's time. They looked scary.

No. That was an understatement. They looked _fucking frightening_.

Ajay turned to Elliot, noticing his hesitance.

"Wat? U spooked by their new gear?" She chuckled warmly.  
"Me? Really? Pfft, you should know me better," he responded, confident. "Nothing spooky about them, they look redi...ride... they look fucking stupid. We're not going to a costume party." Phew, keeping his face and playing Mirage seemed to be so much harder today. (And no, of course, that had nothing to do that he had to be on the same team as them and that he was feeling nervous and love-stricken at the same time).  
  
"I'm sure the word you were looking for is ridiculous."  
  
Clearly startled, Elliott jerked his head up at the sound of the familiar and somewhat gravelly, yet for him very appealing, voice. Bloodhound now stood right before him, staring directly at Elliott (though he could never be sure thanks to these weird goggles - could you even call _these things_ goggles? His were so much cooler).  
  
Elliot stared back, blinking rapidly, eyes travelling up and down their mask, trying to fix his gaze upon something so he could avoid any eye contact (_Goggle contact_, he thought, a stupid joke that helped him relax a little). _But didn't they just stand like 5 feet away from them?_  
  
Bloodhound tilted their head in curious regard, studying Elliott's reaction.  
  
"Y-yeah that's it," the trickster replied, trying to keep his cool, "I-I mean, like, look, I didn't mean to like Uhm... well, no offence." He pressed his damp hands against his chest.  
"None taken." A soft chuckle escaped their lips. A chuckle that would usually melt Elliott's heart, but given the circumstances, it felt like as if a predator was looming over its prey, mocking it before tearing it apart.  
  
_Their knife would come in handy_, Elliott shuddered at that thought.  
  
Bloodhound seemed amused by Elliott's sudden discomfort, their arms folded across their chest. The younger man's breath hitched, his face flushed._ What now?_  
  
They abruptly turned around and started walking towards the dropship. Elliott's body relaxed slightly, at least he wouldn't need to stare at them for any longer (well, at least not at their front). He couldn't resist the urge to have a quick glance at the hunters back, mostly covered by their rather obscure outfit. Still, for a brief moment, Elliott admired their defined body, their strong built, and...

"Time to go, my felagí fighters," they stated, turning their head to face Elliott once more. "Today's victory is already written."  
  
Elliott's eyes shot up. He clenched his teeth together, his cheeks now burning hot. He could have sworn that, although he had heard Bloodhound saying things like that to his previous teammates before, that it sounded... different this time. Like, well, like they were not talking about today's game. But about... something else.  
  
_'What other kinds of victory should they mean, moron?'_ The voice in his head mockingly remarked, making Elliot's left fingernails digging deep into his skin. _'You just WISH for it to mean...something else. Maybe they're just mocking you again like last time, remember?'_  
  
"Oh, shut it," Elliott exclaimed, almost shouting, earning him a confused look from Ajay. He instantly regretted it, hoping Bloodhound didn't hear him. But they did.  
"How very rude," the simply stated, before boarding the dropship.  
  
"I don't think it's a good idea to mock them, ya know," Ajay's voice sounding half worried, half annoyed. "Now shift your carcass, we got a job to do!" 

* * *

Elliott leaned back into sinking leather of the chair, his limbs stretching out awkwardly, staring mindlessly at the colourful patterns of his suit. Yellow, bright fucking yellow, just as he liked it (though it took him quite some time to choose between green and yellow). The voices of the other legends chatting and laughing swarm around him. He glanced up, eyes wandering, only to be met by Wraiths ice-cold blue eyes. _Geez_, how long had she been staring at him? Elliott quickly looked away, he couldn't deal with her anger right now. He only wished to not face, let alone, fight her in the ring. Elliott was sure that she had meant what she had said to him earlier and, quite frankly, he would very much like to keep his brains. Sure, he wouldn't die for real, as the Apex Games were like a simulation, but he'd feel the pain as if it was real (and by that, without realising, he didn't only mean the physical pain). Knowing how angry she was, he had the feeling she wouldn't even kill him quickly and would be more than happy to see him suffering._ But why...?_  
  
Elliott's mind wandered off once again (it sure wasn't the best time for that), and he desperately tried to find an answer to Wraith's fury. Maybe she had called or texted him, or wanted to grab some drinks with him, (and he had ignored his phone altogether over the last couple of days), but that wouldn't cause her to despise him so much, would it? He shook his head slightly and sighed, it's not like he forgot her birthday or something.  
  
_Oh FUCK._  
  
Shocked by the sudden realisation that he had _indeed_ forgotten her birthday (and not many people knew hers, so it was somehow a big deal for her and their friendship, or whatever it was), he glanced up, eyes widened, lips parted.  
  
"Wra..."  
  
Before he could say anything, the drop was announced, and Elliott could have sworn that Wraith hissed at him in despise before joining her team. Elliott watched her turn away and leave for a brief moment, his body all tensed up, so much actually that it started to hurt. _How can I…_  
  
Before he could finish his thought process, Ajay grabbed Elliott to drag him up from his seat. Her hand had appeared out of nowhere and tightened on his wrist, brown knuckles and strong. He turned to fight it (lost in the moment, he didn't realise it was Ajay, he probably didn't even know where he was right now) but found his feet dragging along the steel floor as he lost his balance, his body twirling and jerking as he fell face down. He opened his eyes in shock, his perception of time distorted, his vision slightly blurred by the impact.  
  
_**Laughter.** _  
  
It took him only a few seconds to realise what just had happened, leaving him feeling embarrassed, ashamed and yes, quite humiliated. He could feel everyone gawking at him now, laughing (Wraith undoubtedly enjoying it the most), pointing fingers. Elliott's face turned red, but before he knew it, a muscular arm wrapped around his chest, helping him up with ease, carrying him into the dropship.  
  
Everyone was silent, surprised by Bloodhound's unexpected and sudden act of ... kindness.  
  
"Prepare for the battle," they said calmly, but determined. Not letting go of Elliott and holding onto him tightly, they jumped. A howling cry erupted from Elliott's lungs, blood pounding in his ears as they were dropping.  
  
_'So much for Master of the jump, huh?'_

* * *

Elliott didn't know when Bloodhound had let go of him, was it during the jump or on impact? Why did they grab him in the first place, why did they hold onto him? Why... weren't they the only one not laughing at him earlier? Everyone had seemed to be amused by Elliott's mishap... except them. _What's that supposed to mean?_  
  
Wondering, he shook off the dirt that stuck to his bodysuit and boots due to the impact.  
  
_'Stop thinking. It's time. The game's started,'_ needled the voice inside Elliott's head.  
  
_'Mirage, come out, come out, wherever you are...'_ The voices in his head could be maddening at times, never knowing when they spoke to him, distracting him, driving him nuts (voices, voice, was he hearing different voices? Or was it really just his _own_?) However, he (or the voice?) was right. **The game's on**, he had to drop Elliott and switch to Mirage. He had to. He couldn't let the world see who he really was. After all, the viewers knew him as Mirage, the holographic trickster who charmed the world with his fake looks, outstanding personality, and great humour that gave everyone a reason to cheer. And Elliott knew that, despite having mastered his Holo-pilot technique and being very smart, all that people needed in these dystopian times was something or someone to enjoy.  
  
"This is good, this is good! Let's fight," Elliott prompted cheerfully, although he had absolutely no clue where they had landed since he hadn't paid attention to any of his squadmates pings. (Well, how could he? Feeling Bloodhound's arms wrapped around him while dropping made him forget about, well, pretty much everything).  
  
_Smack!_  
  
"What the ... WHAT was that for?" fumed Elliott. "That's the second one today, ... oh boy this one was rough," he scolded.  
"Well deserved," Bloodhound approved of Lifeline's slap, their voice sounding distant.  
"Focus now, will ya?" Lifeline badgered, poking Elliott in the ribs, jokingly.  
"Yes, Ma'am," he bleated, not having expected her to act so violently (and no, it was not violent at all, but he felt violated). Elliott focused for a moment, studying his surroundings, listening for any noises. But there weren't any. It was eerily quiet, too quiet if you asked him. He drank in the silence through every pore, soothed by its meditative quality, which helped him pull himself together. He knew that the spotlight was on him and the other legends. He knew that cameras were lurking in almost every corner of King's Canyon. And it made him feel _fucking_ uneasy. Elliott finally noticed that they had dropped slightly outside Swamps, almost on the edge of the ring, and they were now moving across the damp fields. Elliott kicked at the ground, scuffing the soil, as he reached one of the first houses.  
  
"I'm gonna loot over her," he exclaimed, making his way through the cabins and supply bins.  
  
_Bloodhound_  
  
He grimaced at the thought of the Hunter, trying his best to smile and look as cheery as possible. However, he was still confused about the whole situation, but it was certainly not the right time to think about it, to think about _them_. Stepping out of the tiny cabin, and jumping down, he focused on the rich, wet, and sticky mud underneath him. A land that had seen a thousand years of peace, and probably an equal number of corpses. Long ago, when people_ actually died_ during the games, until the directors realised that a simulation would benefit them more. Letting participants become legends while their deaths still seemed real (and felt real, maybe to make it more realistic - or the director was just a sadistic cunt, Elliott couldn't decide which was more likely) attracted much more viewers.  
  
Mechanised battles, weapons firing without stop, and even when no more heat signatures remained, they would still fire until empty - meaning more profit for the creators, more viewers, more prolonged battles, albeit simulated. That was the point of it, after all. All the participants were like machines, like robots, at least, that's how Elliott felt like. Machines that are not supposed to have PTSD, empathy, or remorse, never failing to kill. Machines didn't know what it is to be human. But of course, the participants were _no machines_. They were still human beings, trapped in this kind of virtual reality, some for fame, some for glory, some more money and some... some just participated because they had no other place to be. No other place to go. And Elliott was one of them. Elliott felt a scream trying to untangle itself from his lungs.  
  
_We can't live like this forever, like human rabbits in our warren. One day there'll be one last battle..._  
  
While he was lost in thoughts, he was still capable of gathering all the loot he needed (only later would he realise that he picked up two Mozambiques). Elliott followed the tracks of his squadmates, listening attentively to their seemingly spare conversations. A ping from Lifeline here, one from Bloodhound there. That's pretty much all he could hear.  
  
_Wait, why was it that quiet?_  
  
"Listen, guys, it's like, you know, quiet," Elliott mumbled as he caught up with Lifeline and Bloodhound.  
"Who wants to step up? Anyone? I'll be down there!" Lifeline gave him a dirty look like as he had just said something completely out of line. She pressed her index finger to her mouth, showing him to keep his mouth shut.  
"But guys, it's..." his mouth was met with cold leather gloves, pressing firmly onto his cracked lips, keeping him quiet. Elliott shuddered, leaning slightly and subconsciously into the sudden touch. A surge of comfort rushed against his skin, followed by a sense of clattering panic.  
"Someone travelled through here recently," Bloodhound whispered and Elliott tried to stuff down shadowed guilt rushing through his veins. His heart stuttered to a stop, breath clinging to his ribs. A surge of anxiety took over and silenced stretched between all three of them. Elliott took a hard breath in. He hated the way they looked in this very moment. Calm. Cool. Unfazed. Yet ... Footsteps. Bloodhound tracked down recent footsteps heading towards Hydro Dam, but still within range. They abruptly got up and followed them fast. _Inhumanly fast._  
  
"Come," Lifeline said to Elliott, stretching out her hand, palm up, turned toward the trickster. Elliott shrugged in disapproval, pushing her hand away.  
"I can take care of myself y' know, I defeated a lot of people to get he - ..."  
  
Elliott abruptly shut his eyes and jumped to the side as a loud gunshot he heard a millisecond ago hit Lifeline directly in her head, destroying her shields. Before he could get up and rush over to her, another shot was fired, and her deathbox appeared right in front of him. Elliott struggled to keep his eyes open, lips pressed together in a line of concentration. He blinked several times to refocus, trying to figure out where the shots came from, but couldn't. He got up in a rush and headed back to the closest cabin within reach. His shoulders squared, hitching upwards in a tensed hard line. He shoved open the door of the cabin and closed it shut immediately after, reverberating with an echo through the woods. Well, if you could call an abandoned swamp that. He was leaning against the door, heart quickening as thoughts ran laps inside his mind, stuck on looped feedback. Outside, however, the gunfire had ceased. Swallowing hard, trying to make as little noise as possible, he quickly moved and hid behind one of the big containers. He firmly held one of his Mozambique in his hands, ready and prepared to fight.  
  
But, ... nothing. Just silence. No more blasting sounds of guns, no footsteps.  
  
They've been within the next ring, pretty heavily equipped after looting Swamps entirely, still, the shot that had killed Lifeline must have been from a Kraber that destroyed her Level 1 helmet quite quickly. He crouched behind one of the big containers in the cabin, listening carefully. He opened his Holopad and realised Lifeline's respawn time had been over, so it was just him ... and _Bloodhound_.  
  
_Bloodhound_.  
  
Where in God's name were, they? A frustrated sigh hissed out through his teeth. He glanced towards the door, waiting impatiently. If the other squad had a Kraber, and probably other pretty goddamn loot, he was fucked. Like, _really_ fucked, since he only _just now_ realised that he had two Mozambiques. He wouldn't stand a chance alone, and he was painfully aware of the fact. And Elliott had no idea what guns Bloodhound had. If they had any, despite their knife.  
  
The cabin had two entrances, and his eyes ached from looking back and forth. He could open one door and sent out one of his decoys, but it would give away his position.  
  
_'They already know where you are, moron.'_  
  
Fire flooded his blood, rushing through his veins with a pulsating rhythm of pulse. It slowly began to boil.  
  
_Gunfire. _  
  
_Screams. _  
  
_High pitched voices shrieking nearby, muffled. _  
  
_And then. _  
  
_Silence._  
  
Deafening silence. A chill filtered down Elliott's arm, making him grip his Mozambique even harder, his senses sharpened now. Every muscle in his body tensed, blood slowly filling his mouth as he was biting down hard on his tongue. Elliott turned his body stiffly, every muscle coiling and tensing within.  
  
His attention turned to one of the cabin's doors as it was abruptly shoved open with great force. A feral snarl erupted from deep within Bloodhound's lungs. The door had opened with a loud bang, and Elliott clung to the cabin's walls, still hiding behind the container, his body shivering uncontrollably. The cabin door slammed shut again. With a throaty growl Bloodhound jumped on the container above Elliott, a knife glinted after the path of his moving figure. Elliott trembled in fear. _Was that it? Was that his end? No way. Bloodhound couldn't kill him. It was against the rules. Did rules matter to them? Did he matter to them?_  
  
Elliott glanced up as steady drips of blood splashed down his face from above. His eyes met Bloodhound's dark and red glowing gogles. Bloodhound glanced down on Elliott, their right hand was clenching around their knife's blade. They sucked in a deep breath, lips curling underneath their mask. And for a second, the world stood still.  
  
_Feral. Vicious. _**_Beautiful._**  
  
_They are going to tear you in pieces,'_ a sinister voice whispered from dark corners deep inside him warned him. Breath rushed out of Elliott's lungs with a sharp exhale, faint tears clung to his cheeks, his soft, dark brown curls clinging to his sweaty forehead. He was biting down on the tip of his tongue to keep silent.  
  
"Are you _hurt?"_ a soft drawl asked after what seemed an eternity of silence, enunciating each word with perfect precision. Their heavy, thick accent sending shivers down Elliott's spine, giving him goosebumps. Elliott's eyes narrowed. _Wait, like, what had just happened? What did they just ask? Did he hear it right? Was he dreaming? Hallucinating?_  
  
"Mirage," they prodded. "Are you hurt?" they stressed, jumping down from the container, maintaining a straight posture. Elliott followed every move they made, every step they took but remained silent. His vision was becoming darker now, Bloodhounds shadowy figure leaned with ease against the container, watching Elliott. Their arms stretched across their _oh-so-goddamn-breathtaking-muscular-sexy chest_ (and yes, Elliott hated himself for thinking that with death knocking on his door), framed like a beast lurking, waiting to feast on his flesh.  
  
"Don't let your wounds end your fate," they drawled, while Elliott drifted in and out of consciousness. He knew what these words meant. He had heard them before when Elliott had not been part of the Apex Games but had watched every match on the crappy TV in his bar. It was something Bloodhound would say right before they slaughtered their enemy.  
  
"It's... It's not all t-that bad," Elliott managed flatly, looking down, away. "I mean, the sun's out, i-it's a nice day, yeah, you, you know, just ... trying to be hopeful." He stared passed his legs and focused on the bloodstains on Bloodhounds boots. And they were... _fuck_. Just completely covered in blood.  
  
_How many legends had they killed before they came back here?_  
  
Bloodhound leaned forward, and Elliott could swear he was smirking as fuck underneath that mask. After all, Elliott was most likely the easiest prey for them. They made it very clear to him in the last match.  
  
_>’Your poor trust led to a poor end.'_  
  
Oh, how he recalled that moment last time in the ring. In a match far shorter than Sunday's games (which usually lasted up to 24 hours, making it extra fun for viewers, as the director once had proclaimed). A match where Bloodhound had not just mocked him, but …. emotionally scarred him. On purpose, he was convinced. Elliott's mind was a mess.

_'They wanted you to be on their team so they could kill you.' _

It didn't make sense, yet it did. Elliott didn't know why he deserved this, why Bloodhound was so eager to kill him. Had they noticed how much he felt for them? How much he loved them? Did that make them feel uncomfortable, maybe even disgusted? Was that the reason?

"Don't ...," Elliott groaned, a sharp pain rushing through his body. He glanced down on his leg, which was now completely covered in red. _Blood? His own blood?_

Shredded pieces of his bodysuit clinging to an open wound, most likely caused by shrapnel. He hadn't realised how badly he was wounded. How did he not notice that? And for a moment he thought that Bloodhound had actually pointed out before that he was severely injured, not that they were about to slaughter him. That was, however, just a passing thought. Trembling, he covered in a corner like a wounded deer, afraid, waiting to die. His unsteady palm settled now on his wounds, fingers splayed wide to apply a steadying pressure.

_'You're bleeding out.'_

Elliot's breath stolen from his lungs, his heart quieted to a standstill, waiting for an echoing beat of another.

_'You are BLEEDING out.' _

A shuddering sigh shook Elliott's body as Bloodhound came closer to him, leaning in, reaching into their backpack now.

'You're dying. And they enjoy watching you before they finish you.'

"Please, please, just s-shut up for a moment!" Elliot cried out, leaving Bloodhound looking at him, puzzled, confused, before they pulled something out from their backpack. They did not say anything to Elliott's sudden outburst, but they were kneeling in front of him before he even knew it, towering over Elliott. The Hunter tilted his head slightly down, staring at Elliott's wound in curious regard, but more like, _hungry_. Shadows flickered inside a dark gaze, the red glow that had disappeared before shining through their goggles once again. Elliott wanted to scream. Bloodhound began to breathe heavily, every drag filling the silence of the cabin. Elliott could almost feel their pulsating and racing heart, and he could only imagine that they wanted to end him _right here, right now._

They were close enough to grab his throat, rip it apart, tear his gear to pieces, and sink their blood-stained knife through slots of his rib cage. Elliott heard the crinkling leather of boots as Bloodhound leaned even closer, their foreheads nearly touching. He inhaled softly, breathing in their scent, a mix of blood, nature, and... fuck, _how was he supposed to keep a straight face if the person he wanted the most was being so damn close to him?_

Life flashes before one's eyes before they die. Elliott remembered that saying clearly. His life, however, wasn't flashing before his eyes. It was, well, much worse. _Incredibly worse._  
  
With his eyes half-open, he noticed that ... he was **_aroused_**, his bodysuit tented from an erection beneath.

"Mirage."

Elliott didn't respond, the sound of Bloodhound's voice seemed distant, far away. Still, he allowed himself to drown in the rhythm of their accent, carried by its lulling timber. He knew he was about to pass out any second. His breath hitched, cheeks flushed hot, arms flashing forward to desperately trying to hide his arousal.

_'Why, why, why... you're about to die, so at least enjoy it,'_ the voice mocked him, and Elliott gave in.

"The Allfather graces you" the Hunter whispered.  
"W-what...?" Elliott's voice caught in his throat.

"I give a life. I don't **_taka_**."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and thanks for the comments, and the Kudos, I wish I could hug you all. I know this piece is far away from being perfect, but I still hope you enjoy it, and enjoyed this chapter. So much more to come. Thank you all, I can't stress that enough! <3


	4. Darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was unsure whether or not to keep writing this, because the next chapters already make me cry. So sorry for the delay, I really try to keep up a schedule now, but work, life, and everything else inbetween crosses my way all the time. I wish I could just be lost in words forever.

A shuffling sound stirred Elliott from unconsciousness clouding his troubled mind. He blinked hard and rapidly, trying to adjust to the darkness. He sucked in a deep breath and held it. Where was he? What time was it? And most of all, what the fuck had happened?

A crash of agony thundered in his chest, anxiety eclipsing his thoughts. Was he dead? Like, _really_ dead? Was this heaven or hell? Did heaven or hell even exist? 

While slowly regaining consciousness, Elliott appeared to have something like an existential crisis, which did not go unnoticed for the other person who had been watching over him for the past couple of hours. 

Elliott’s heavy eyelids lifted slowly, realising he was still in the cabin (for God knows how long), the match was still going on, and he was still alive. Letting out a small sigh of relief, Elliott lifted his head, shoulders straight, leaning back from his crouched position against the wall. He uncrossed his legs and stretched them out in front of him, releasing the pressure from his own weight on them. A numbing and at the same time tingling sensation shot through his legs like pins and needles. While massaging his legs and jiggling his feet to restore blood flow, Elliott noticed that his wounds were healed, a tear in his clothing the only reminder. 

His face suddenly ashened, fresh terror reared up within him, a bolt of panic hitting him as he finally realised that he wasn’t alone. Bloodhound had come back from tracking down enemies quite some time ago, he recalled them towering over him, blood dripping from them on him. He remembered them saying something - even though he had no recollection of what they had said (and it certainly didn't help that it was not entirely in English). How long had he been out?

He glanced over to one of the scarcely barricaded windows, where Bloodhound was kneeling against, staring out of their weapon’s scope into the darkness with steady hands, ready to pull the trigger at any moment. Their body was lithe, moving slow and purposefully now and then by only a few inches to scan the area. A predator at rest, radiating an aura of pure power and strength, eagerly waiting for their prey. Even amid the dark Elliott had to admit that they were just... _fascinating_. And still, despite his admiration for them, fear gripped Elliott’s heart.

_Why am I still alive? Or is this purgatory? Am I trapped with them in here for eternity?_

A shudder ran down his spine, he took a deep breath, trembling, trapped in his thoughts. _Well spending eternity with them doesn’t sound that bad, does it? _He let out a quiet chuckle, followed by a few tears making their way down his cheeks. At this point, Elliott wasn’t sure what he was feeling, or rather, what he should feel. Bloody hell, he had no idea of _anything._

_‘Stop daydreaming. Are you scared, Elliott? Or excited? Do you hate them? Fear them? Lust for them? Get off of your emotional rollercoaster!’_

“Do you feel rested?” Bloodhound broke the silence and stared at Elliott, their G7 Scout now resting on their right leg. Their head tilted in curious regard - like always. Why did they always look so god damn good, when they tilted their head, studying him curiously?

“I’m f-fine,” Elliott’s mouth going dry, he was trying to blink away a rush of dark thoughts and night terrors rolling in. The voice in his head was right. He was on a fucking emotional rollercoaster, not knowing how to get off. A hard swallow and a painful cough followed. Confusion still fogging his mind.

_They didn’t kill me? Or did they poison me? _

Elliott suddenly realised that Bloodhound had searched for something in their backpack before darkness had overpowered him. It could have been poison. _Yes. Definitely poison _(here it was again, the trickster tricking himself into believing this highly absurd idea). And no, it didn’t cross Elliott’s scattered mind that Bloodhound might have saved him and that for a simple reason: They were a team, they were in the middle of a match, and they were one man down. _Oh, Ajay..._ Even Bloodhound could not take all squads by themselves. Or maybe they could. Elliott was not sure. All he knew was that the incredibly skilled Hunter had won on many occasions before, slaughtering one after another, in solo matches or in squads. Their name was well deserved, at least in Elliott’s opinion.

Bloodhound noticed Elliott’s confusion, even if it was barely visible in the darkness, but his ragged breathing breaking the silence pretty much gave it away.

“You were wounded, felagí fighter, so I assisted you with a Medkit. It seemed, however, that you were also in desperate need of some rest.” They stated, almost concerned, albeit it was difficult to tell because of the distortion in their voice. “You were unconsciousness for approximately 2 hours and 32 minutes,” they said before Elliott even had a chance to raise the question of how long he had been out.

Hazel eyes swung up. They had saved him. Was this even real? Could it be that they actually cared for him? 

_`You’re their teammate, it’s against the rules to kill each other...,’_ a familiar voice in his head interjected his own thoughts mockingly,_ ‘don’t be a fool, they couldn’t care less about your sorry ass.’_

“Yeah I f...fucking know that,” Elliott whispered. “Last time you said they were going to kill me, so make your fucking mind up!”

“I beg your pardon?” The older legend asked in confusion, standing up now, straightening and tugging firmly at the edges of their coat and sleeves to right their appearance.

_Intimidating._

Elliott finally dared to look up, his unsteady hands combing through his hair, desperately trying to fix the mess. He still had to look good, right?

“I-I was just ta... talking to myself,” Elliott mumbled, his gaze drifting away, fixated on the G7 Scout now to avoid having to look at Bloodhound again. “Thank you, that’s what I-I wanted to s-say,” he stuttered, voice rasping. His breathing had become _very_ ragged now. Cold air seeped through the hardwood floor, his knees shivered, his tensed body shaking violently. 

Bloodhound stood still, studying Elliott carefully.

“Mirage, calm yourself” they advised, noticing the tremors Elliott could not hold back anymore. They moved closer to the other legend. “Breathe.”

The trickster did not listen and stayed firmly rooted in his place, swallowing down a sound of pure distress. He could feel his lungs burning, face becoming paler every second, his heart racing in his chest. He leaned forward and buried his face deep in his hands. 

_Why am I not dead? Why am I still here? Is this a joke, is this a fucking goddamn joke? Are they going to play a game of cat and mouse with me, showing me mercy first, belittling me, before ..._

Extremely agitated now, hysterical one would say, Elliott was bitten by the sharp teeth of anxiety and fear. But this was not a rush of anxiety pulsing through his veins. This was not just fear. It was a full-blown panic attack springing to life, consuming him, searing through him. Invisible hands clasped over Elliot’s mouth, an equally ghostly hypodermic of adrenaline piercing his heart, unloading in an instant. He felt his ribs heaving heavily as if bound by ropes, straining to inflate his lungs. His mind resembling a carousel of fears spinning out of control, each one pushing him further into darkness.

Before realising, Bloodhound crushed their body against his, throwing both of them against the wooden wall behind Elliott. They wrapped their arms around Elliott, so tight that both had a difficult time breathing and Elliott’s struggle did not make it easier for them. Bloodhound reached for Elliott’s hair, brushing as softly as they could through his dark brown curls with their cold leather gloves, while still holding him as tight as possible. A small whine reached their ears.

“L-let go of me!” Elliott blurred, although he didn’t make any attempt to push the Hunter away to escape their firm grip (he just didn’t have the strength for that). 

“Calm down.” They repeated persistently, waiting for trembling limbs to subside. Their words, however, reached deaf ears. Elliott was losing control, lashing out, desperately trying to hide his dread. He tilted his head towards the hand that had touched his head, still lingering in his hair, and... **_bit it_ **(much to his own surprise). And he bit Bloodhound hard. Painfully hard. A feral cry erupted from Bloodhounds lips, their hands grabbing Elliott at his throat, blood soaking through their glove. Elliott panted for air.

“I swear by the Allfather,” they growled, “if you do not come to your senses, I will indeed end your life.”

“T-try me,” Elliott smirked despite standing no chance against the bloodthirsty tracker (would he, Elliott himself, even try to fight the only person he loved?). 

“Mirage,” they howled warningly, “do not test my patience.” 

A rush of cold air whipped around their bodies, a low howling sound echoing unspoken words trapped in the fall and rise of their chests.

_What am I doing? What the FUCK am I doing?_

Elliott closed his eyes, fear rushing through his veins. He expected the worst now, having raised his voice against Bloodhound, having bitten them (what in God’s name was he even thinking?) and clearly having challenged them. 

_For what? Is that my fucking way of saying thank you for saving my life and trying to help me with my panic attack?_

_Wait_. 

Elliott blinked rapidly as he realised that Bloodhound knew precisely how to deal with someone having a severe panic attack. Pressure, reassurance, body contact, comfort. Things his brothers had done to him whenever he had a panic attack. 

Why did they know that? After all, weren’t they just the cold-blooded killer the Gods had sent? 

Palms suddenly framing a smaller waist, releasing the tight grip around Elliott’s throat, Bloodhound gripped him by his belt, lifting him up on his feet. They stepped between shivering knees, placing one hand on the back of Elliott’s neck, the other hand still holding onto his belt. They tipped their shoulders together to seek a closer embrace.

“Ouch! FUCK!” Elliott shrieked making Bloodhound jump, loosening his grip on him, but not fully letting go.

“Thanks for pie... per... for fucking stabbing me with your stupid mask!” Only now Bloodhound realised that his mask that resembled the beak of a raven, just sharper, had indeed pierced Elliott in the shoulder. 

“Forgive me,” they murmured. “I did not want to cause you any harm.”

“Well, y-you fucking did, I’m bleeding! “Elliott retorted, applying pressure on his wound with his hand. 

Bloodhound hawked, letting go of Elliott, albeit still having their leg between his legs, holding him in his place. They took off their glove.

“That makes two of us then,” showing Elliott his bitemark on their hand, they let out a soft chuckle. “I was not aware that your incisors were that sharp.”

“Um… I...” Elliott stammered out, cheeks blushing from pink to deep red (thank God for the darkness), eyes lowering in shame. Bloodhound was right. They saved him, they calmed him down from his rido... redo... ridiculous - yes, that’s the word - panic attack, and yet Elliott had done everything to defy them. Even... bit them. 

“Let’s... Let’s call it like... even now,” he said, trying not to challenge the Hunter any further, whose leg was STILL in between his. And Elliott had only just noticed that. And oh my, he definitely noticed it now. 

_No no no. Not yet, pleaaaase. _

Bloodhound smiled down at the younger legend, although Elliott did not see it, but sensed it. They let go of him entirely, removed their legs from in between Elliott’s and moved back to the barricaded window, turning their back to Elliott.

“Three squads still remain. No tracks so far, but we ought to be more careful from now on, though.” They stated calmly while retaking their position, grabbing their gun. 

Three squads. God, he almost forgot about the match (again!). And what about Wraith? Was Wraith still among them, lurking in the dark, waiting for him to give his position away? Or did she already go through the void and knew precisely where Elliot was right now (and just waiting to slice his throat)? Could she compete against Bloodhound? Against both of them?

“Do not worry, felagí.”

“W-what do you mean?”

“I killed her. She is no longer a threat during today’s match.” Bloodhound was looking through their scope again, searching for tracks or any hints that led to the other remaining squads. They were as calm as they had been before, untouched, tranquil... peaceful.

Elliott, on the other hand, jerked up, clearly startled and shocked by their statement.

“What the hell! How... Since when can you read my mind?”

A gust of wind carried barks of sharp laughter. Their head suddenly thrown back, Bloodhound held on to their neck and between an unseen flash of teeth laughed up at the scarce ceiling of the wooden cabin. The sound was rather bright and airy. A sound so delightful that Elliott wished he could hold it inside his own chest forever. He was unable to recall hearing the Hunter genuinely laugh - if he had ever heard it before.

_How ...beautiful._

“Of all the things I am capable of doing,” Bloodhound said, his laughter subsiding a little, “reading one’s mind is not amongst them.”

Elliott stared at them in bewilderment.

“Then how...”

“You were either worrying about Wraith’s fury that was clearly still on your mind,” Bloodhound said matter of factly, “or you were concerned that your arousal wouldn’t go unnoticed.” They laughed even harder now, shoulders shaking, knees clenching together. Almost as if they were mocking him. 

Elliott gasped for air, barely able to continue to breathe. He regarded Bloodhound with a heated stare and half parted lips. 

_They noticed. They FUCKING noticed._

“I was not... I did not... That’s fucking stupid!” Elliott stuttered, his arms quivering wildly around. 

_Oh, God, what am I going to do?_

His head turning, Bloodhound gazed at the profile of the younger man’s face. Their eyes accustomed to the darkness much better than Elliot’s, their gaze travelling across narrowed eyebrows, pretty scars and a mouth pressed into a thin line in defiance. How beautiful, they thought. And it was not the first time they had felt that.

And it was certainly not the first time that Elliott had become aroused by the sight of them, let alone the sound of their voice, or even their touch. Elliott, however, had always hoped it would go fucking unnoticed. But he was wrong. _So_ fucking wrong. His cheeks flushed hot, unbearably hot.

“Do not worry,” Bloodhound said flatly, turning his head towards the window again. “Arousal is a rather simple physical reaction of an individual to desire another human being’s touch, especially in highly emotional situations.” Bloodhound let out a deep, satisfying sigh. “It’s perfectly normal. You might not recall, but the same happened shortly before you fell unconscious.”

“W-what are you saying? That’s not n-normal, it’s... Jesus, I was not aroused!” Elliott’s voice was caught in his throat once again. He choked back in protest. 

Would Bloodhound still consider it perfectly normal if they knew that _they_ were the reason he couldn’t control his obvious and unnatural desire for them? And that it wasn’t just a ‘physical’ reaction? For Christ’s sake, he had a goddamn boner because of _them_. Before passing out (thank God he hadn’t recalled that earlier), and now. Shame flooded through Elliott’s veins, embarrassment spreading like wildfire. Bloodhound had never shown any interest in him, quite the contrary, they had mocked him, and this whole charade in today’s game was probably just another way of embarrassing him. Their laughter, which had sounded so beautiful in Elliott’s ears only moments ago, was still echoing in his mind and was now just painful to remember. No. His emotional and visible physical reaction was nowhere near perfectly normal. 

“If you say so, Mirage,” they mockingly responded, well knowing that the other legend was just flat out lying. 

“I wasn’t aroused, you dipshit!” he stammered out, twisting back, grabbing his Mozambique, pointing it shakingly at Bloodhound. A wave of fury crashed through him (well, at least his sexual desire was gone - for now). 

_What are you doing you, idiot, stop! Just stop it!_

The Hunter jerked their back abruptly, their goggles glowing deep red now, breathing jagged. Clenching their fists, a fresh swell of rage rose in them, hard to suppress.

“I have told you before ... do not test my patience,” they sucked in a breath and held it. They looked so utterly... dangerous and feral at this moment. Elliott’s mind raced, swallowing hard, feeling the distance between them closing in. It was unsettling. And exciting_. _

_Wait, what? What the hell did I just think?_

_‘Do you want them to harm you? Fuck you, kill you, tear you apart? Or simply hurt or even torture you? How low have you sunken, Elliott? Wasn’t that the life you desperately wanted to escape from?’_

Elliott began to sweat profusely. Bloodhound’s mouth ticked, a hint of anger curling their tongue. Inwardly they were seething. They felt kind of … betrayed. Bloodhound knew that Elliott had issues, everyone knew, but albeit trying to do their best to be understanding, they could not comprehend the complexity of the other legend’s mind (or rather understand how his scattered mind actually worked). Nor had Bloodhound any idea on how to deal with Elliott’s sudden mood swings and changes, all they could do is try their best. Yet Elliott still managed to insult them. Bloodhound knew that Elliott lashed out from time to time, he had seen him acting out on Wraith and Octane, sometimes on Bangalore, and even though they wanted to be closer to him – they had kept their distance. 

“Are we understood?”

“Yeah, I gotcha,” Elliott stated cooly while biting his inner cheek. In some sort of really twisted and fucked up way, he wanted to provoke them. Like, badly. Really badly. Why? He didn’t know. He didn’t think at all. 

“But... I gotta admit... I MAY have tricked you,” Elliott tried hard to choke back his words. “Phew, glad I got that off my chest.” Beads of sweat clinging to his temple. His fingers wrapped around his biceps, nails digging deep. 

Bloodhound stilled for a moment. 

**Then they jumped. **

Like a vicious beast, hungry and determined. Air pushed out of Elliott’s lungs as Bloodhound violently grabbed him by his neck again and threw him back at the wall with such a force that Elliott thought wooden pieces would pierce through his torso at any moment. 

“Say that again,” Bloodhound dared the younger man. “Or is violence truly the only thing you understand, Elliott?”

_Christ. Jesus. Jesus fucking Christ._

Heat spread, pleasure and pain began to coil deep inside Elliott. They’d called him by his real name. His real _fucking_ name. A dangerous growl from deep inside Bloodhound’s throat made Elliott’s cock jerk, straining, their grip around his neck tightening even more. He let out a curse, another tremor trying to erupt from his lungs.

Elliott’s hands suddenly snatched them up by their collar, holding on tightly, dragging them closer. Elliott couldn’t see it, but the Hunter was waiting in anticipation, the tip of their tongue slipping over their sharp incisors, followed by another deep, throaty growl.

_What am I doing, please, do I want to die? _

_‘Isn’t that what you always wanted, idiot?’_

Elliott’s cock throbbed, burned. It was harder and hotter than any of the night’s he woke, sweating in his sheets, Bloodhound’s name caught between his teeth. While he considered these nights either delightful or filled with terrifying nightmares - really depending on his overall mood - Elliott became now painfully aware that this was neither. This was real. As real as it could get. And as much as he hated it, as much as he hated the thought ... Bloodhound towering over him, choking him, was better than the thrill of killing, better than anything he had ever experienced.

“P...please...” Elliott begged. He just didn’t know what he was asking for. Sex? Torture? Death? 

Bloodhound’s fingers dug deep into Elliott’s flesh, their whole body crushing him underneath their weight. A scream erupted from Elliott’s mouth as Bloodhound let go of his throat and punched the wall dangerously close to Elliot’s face. Their fists clenched, stilled. Elliott’s heart struggled to beat as Bloodhound lifted their weight from him, glancing at Elliott’s erection. Unbearable heat blistered below their skin, painfully aware of how aroused they were themselves, seeing Elliott like this. But it was wrong. This was wrong. It needed to stop, right now.

They fell back, eyes never leaving Elliott’s.

“Is that what you want, Mirage?” They fumed. Elliott didn’t respond, still caught in the moment. Lost in time, mindlessly staring at the ceiling above him. 

Bloodhound needed to end this before it would get out of hand. Before they couldn’t stop themselves, their own desires, their own lust. For their and Elliott’s sake. Not here. Not right now. Neither of them wasn’t ready for any of this – and the Hunter did not know whether any of them would ever be ready for anything like this.

Bloodhound leaned forward, out of breath, brushing Elliott’s cheek with their thumb.

“Or do you want your cotton candy first,” they taunted, knowing what they had just said would trigger Elliott hard. Like, goddamn heartbreaking hard. As soon as these words left their lips, they instantly felt a rush of guilt and regret. 

Elliot cried out, hot tears clung to the corner of his eyes. Widely awake now, trying to regain control, failing.

“W-what did... you just s-say...?” Elliott panted. Panic rose within him, shocked by what the Hunter had just sad to him. 

_How could they know? How DID they know? WHAT DO THEY KNOW? _

His unsteady, shaking hands clasped his cheeks to steady a rising panic, a kind of terror, as each new sensation crashed against him. He squeezed his eyes shut.

_No. Please No._

Bloodhound looked at him desperately, worried, concerned, their heart aching for Elliott. They felt ashamed for doing this to the trickster, for using _this_ against Elliott for a now rather insignificant seeming reason.

“Elliott...” their voice trailed off, guilt flooding the back of his throat in a burning rush, only to be met by a thunder of hysterical sobs. Bit by bit they quieted to a hum of aching cries. Their hot breath fogging their googles, their blurring vision focusing on the other legends shaking body. What had they done?

A hand reached out to touch Elliott’s. His gaze dilated, rushing back to consciousness in laboured, gasping breaths.

“Don’t touch me!” Elliott let out weakly, another sob wrenching free, his throat burning in a hoarse voice. “For God sake, please. I’m begging you.” 

Elliott desperately tried to contain a caging scream rumbling within his ribcage, he swallowed back nausea flipping in rimmed edges of his stomach. His breath fluttered, trapped inside his lungs. He heard himself breathing hard against the forced darkness that overcame him. A darkness he did not want to be reminded of. Each muscle coiled within, making way up to his legs, curling against his torso, and up to his arms until his entire body trembled.

Elliott found himself crying out loud, clutching at a tightness trapped inside his chest, coiling, dragging, cutting deep. It hurt. It hurt so much he was convinced he wouldn’t survive it. 

“Sí, sí mis amigos, told ya they were in here!” Octane’s obnoxious voice echoed through swamps, reaching the cabin. And within seconds three arc stars and five grenades were thrown through the window, leaving Elliott and Bloodhound immobilised. 

Elliott was right. He didn’t survive it. Unlucky for him, it was only the match he did not survive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, next chapters will be even darker, lots of heartbreak and tears (well, I cried). I shouldn't get too invested in my own stuff, what's wrong with me? Anyway there's so many great fanfictions out there that I get easily distracted too.  
But yeah, thank you for all the comments, the kudos, and yeah, thanks for just being here.


	5. Evil creature

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW applies. Subtle, but there. Read with caution.   
To everyone who loves Elliott's mother: I am sorry.

Numerous days went by slowly and with each day passing, Elliott was more and more consumed of the lethargy that was always creeping up and creating night time horrors. If the whole situation with a new Legend joining the Apex Games wouldn’t make his life even more miserable, Elliott was about to lose his mind, and this time, he was sure he would go completely insane (he had been sure about this quite often in the past, however, this time he was certain, like, really, really certain). After that “incident” in Swamps, the breakdown of Kings Canyon, this absolute wanker Crypto appearing out of nowhere, Elliott kept himself most of the times locked up in his own apartment, trying to avoid human contact at any cost. The only time he had to actually leave his self-proclaimed prison, was, when he had to give interviews or participate in the games in World’s Edge, the new, absolutely uninteresting, dreary and especially cold new location, where he had not managed to land a single win so far. That’s why he considered this location to be just uninteresting, like pretty much everything else in his life, everything had turned out to be dull, uninteresting, worthless.

Or, in all honesty, without deflection, he was the one feeling _utterly_ worthless. Nothing really mattered anymore, at least, that’s what he had been feeling over the past couple of weeks. Mirage, the beautiful, well groomed, beloved trickster, turned into a total mess who more and more resembled a homeless person who had never seen or heard of shampoo, conditioner or facial masks before.

His clothes were a mess, too. Whenever he would lock himself up at “home”, he’d wear his overly worn blue sweatpants and a simple black t-shirt with numerous holes in it. He couldn’t tell whether his clothes had begun to smell or not (as he hadn’t been washing them for quite a while) or if he had just accustomed to that rather unpleasant stench. He also had no one to ask whether or not they’d reek, and even though he wouldn’t admit it, it had been quite disappointing that no one really cared enough about him to at least knock on his door once in a while asking how he was doing. It had felt like everyone was avoiding him after that whole breakdown in Swamps and there was no sign of this dreading feeling to subside any time soon. He was quite aware of the fact that Wraith was still angry at him and that “angry” was probably the biggest understatement he had ever made, but he had hoped for her to come by, at least once, to talk things out, like they had done in the past. But she hadn’t cared enough to text him, call him, or even make an appearance. Bloody hell, she even avoided him on every possible occasion, even if it was just for a group photo, or at lunch times, or even in the ring. Elliott wasn’t even sure if she had locked eyes with him even once. She was like a ghost, a shadow of his past, still present, and yet not there. She had requested to not be on his team anymore for reasons unknown (at least to everyone else) and had not crossed his path during the games even once. Yeah, she clearly had avoided him and continued to do so.

The usual Elliott would just text her and tell her how sorry he was accompanied with stupid emojis that she found absolutely despicable, but she would eventually give in and everything would be fine again. He had started typing a message to her several times, discarded it every time though, and when his phone ran out of battery, he hadn’t cared enough to get it charged for days. Occasionally he would plug it in and turn it on just to see the same screen as always: No missed calls, no missed texts, hell, not even any notification on his social media that was not from his many fans (who frequently pointed out how absent Elliott had been on social media, but the Syndicate had made a statement that he had been working hard on his new hologram technology, which was a blatant lie, but he just went on with it).

Over time, he had received a few messages, though not from his fellow teammates (or, former friends), but from his family. And by family he meant his uncle, who had first texted him inquiring about how he was doing (after like 20 years of no contact) and later on pestered him about the situation with his mother. Elliott had learned that his mother had been sick, and that her situation would just get worse and not better. She suffered from Alzheimer, and his uncle would tell him how she had mentioned Elliott many times while she was lucid. He, however, had also mentioned, how she had forgotten to even given birth to 5 children, when she was in her complete state of dementia, and Elliott had not been sure how he should feel about all of this.

And there was a pretty goddamn good reason for that.

Everyone knew, or thought they knew, that Elliott Witt loved his mother beyond the moon and back. She had always been the light in his life, the strength, the person he trusted the most, his everything. That’s what he had to portray. That’s what he had to tell the press, his “former” friends, like, well … pretty much everyone. Elliott and his mother had been inseparable, especially after all his brothers went MIA in the frontier war, and he was practically the only living son and heir of the infamous Mrs. Witt, who had not only developed his whole holo-tech gear, but had received several awards and nominations for her own creations. Skin shivered across slightly bent knees on the edge of his bed in a rustle of sheets.

_If only they knew._

Elliott resisted the urge to wrap his arms around his torso to stop his body from violently shaking. A mix of emotions overcame him like a wild tornado.

_No one_ knew that Elliott had not had _any_ help from his mother when it came to his holo-techniques. He had not asked her for any help, he had not contacted her for her help, and she had absolutely nothing to do with his holograms, decoys, or whatever everyone called it. She had had no say in it, and will never, especially now that she suffered from Alzheimer’s. She only helped him with ‘one thing’ and ‘one thing’ only. One thing that, he swore to himself, would never be known to others. These thoughts sent a jolt through his body, but not how it used to, it felt different. Fuck, everything just felt different.

Elliott drifted away from his thoughts, only finding himself dwelling in the past even more. For the sake of playing the pretty boy in the Games he had to come up with a story to conceal his intelligence. Being pretty and smart was a dangerous combination, and Elliott had always been very well aware of that. He had known, prior to entering the Games, that he had to settle with one feature. And he chose his looks over his beautiful mind, simply because it was easier to make friends, have occasional hook-ups, and be admired by thousands of fans (he loved the spotlight after all, didn’t he?). Elliott was convinced that if he had revealed how smart he _actually_ was that it would have made him a complete loner and people would still not believe him. He had experienced that in the past, no one really looked beneath his pretty face, no one had acknowledged his achievements, they all had been shallow. So goddamn fucking shallow.

Even his own mother, who had always showed her compassion towards him in such ways incomprehensible for most people. Not even once had she loved him for being smart. She had loved him for being pretty. She had loved him for being …

‘Stop right there. Self-destruction á la dente,’ voices warned him. Elliott listened. For once. After all, it was these voices in his own head that had kept him company over the last few weeks and it seemed that they became more and more prominent with each passing week. Talking to himself or listening to ‘other people’ in his head, had not seemed to concern him more than it had before, quite the contrary. He had gotten used to it and started to enjoy ‘their’ company. Whether or not he would consider himself insane or mad, it didn’t matter to him anymore.

Elliott sucked in a deep breath, now staring absently at a faint grease stain on his sweatpants. His thoughts were confusing and unsettling.

‘Stop thinking about your mother,’ another voice whispered, achieving exactly the opposite of what it had said. There it was again. The thought of his mother consuming his mind more and more. Like these thoughts would feast on his brain matter until there would be nothing left. And for the first time in his life, Elliott could see a quite unnerving resemblance between him and his mother. How much of her brain was still left? Was she hallucinating too? Was she going mad? How much brain matter had she lost during these last weeks (or months, how on Solace would he even know how long she had been in this state?). Did she hear voices too? Had she always heard voices telling her exactly what to do, telling her to become what she had become? Was he about to meet the same fate, just in a different way?

Elliott’s eyelids started twitching uncontrollably. What did it matter anyway? His mother was as good as dead. She might forget about him completely soon, every memory would be erased, every hint of anything that had happened would be diminished, gone. And yet again, Elliott still had no idea about how to feel about this. Should he be happy? Concerned? Sad? Should he be griefing (despite her not even being dead yet)? He knew he had to play the sad violin every time he was in a Game and hints of his mother’s state would be dropped or mentioned. In all fairness, this whole dilemma was good for one thing, it was a great excuse for his shitty performances in the last games. His beloved mother had fallen ill and his whole world seemed to have collapsed. He got a lot of fan mail in the first days after the information went public, however, he had tossed everything in the rubbish, hoping that burning letters would patch up his shattered soul. He had just continued to play the sad little boy whose mother’s death was hanging above him like the Sword of Damocles. Impending doom. Elliott played his part well (even though it did not take him any effort, he was a wreck nevertheless). He could do all of this for his fans, for the Apex Games, for the Syndicate, for everyone who needed an explanation of his shocking state and performance – except for his remaining family. They knew. They had known. And the worst of all: They hadn’t done shit. 

**They had not done anything to save him. **

A rather warm chuckle escaped his dry lips. Why would he, of all people, be sad about his mother’s condition? About her illness, her wellbeing, or even her death? He would gladly step on her grave and dance on it with a bottle of good old Scotch (maybe Bourbon, though) in one hand, and some heavy A-class drugs in the other. Of course, he could not tell anyone, he had not told anyone about this, and probably never will. He was the grieving, oh so sorrowful son to a brilliant mother, who had not only lost four of her sons, but was now about to lose her life to a rather fitting disease. Oh, how Elliott wished right now in this moment he could just speed up the process or that some higher power of something would smother that evil creature with a pillow.

_Evil creature._

Elliott could feel his stomach turn and ache, contracting violently. Nausea clawed at his throat and he desperately tried to force down the bile. Waves of nausea hit him so intense that he hardly it to the bathroom and the toilet bowl before emptying his stomach. Porcelaine clashed with olive green which made Elliott throw up even more. It burst from his throat, practically choking him, hot tears spilling from his eyes. He whimpered. He heaved one last time but next thing he knew was that he … he was crying. Sobbing. His body sunk next to the toilet bowl like a lifeless animal who had just been shot in the head.

** _Evil creature._ **

‘_Isn’t that, what she really is, Elliott? Do you still deny it? Or …’_

Elliott shrugged and stood up abruptly, causing him to feel nauseous again – but his stomach was pretty much empty now. He felt dizzy, this whole apartment spinning. He quickly washed his mouth, wiped away the tears and sluggishly walk into his kitchen. Leaning on his kitchen counter, which was full of crumbs and dirt and sticky stuff that he couldn’t even identify, he stared at the screen of his phone, which was still unchanged, but he suddenly felt the need to go through old messages of his uncle and tried to decide whether or not to text him back to go to hell or to give his condolences. He also thought about texting Wraith again, or Ajay, or ANYONE actually.

Then it suddenly dawned on him.

They all might be taken aback by the fact his mother was seriously ill. They all might think how devastated he must feel. And that he needed space and time to grief and get his shit together. Could it be, that this was the reason that no one, like, literally NONE of his friends had made an attempt to contact him? But then again, if they were all so concerned about his well being, and his mother, and his “grief”, why wouldn’t anyone even say a single word, or give him a hug, or text him in a while to see if he was ok?

_‘They know you Elliott, they know you…’ _it echoed in his head. Yes, they knew him, and Wraith had known him for a long time now. Most of the others knew that in times of trouble, Elliott would seclude himself, go drinking by himself, or do some shit to get into trouble. But that would only last a few days. Not weeks (but how long has it been now, for real?). If anyone else he had cared for would behave like he did, he would have tried to reach out. He always had reached out to others. It did not make sense.

And in all fairness, not much made sense these days for Elliott Witt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back. Anyone miss me? *sad face*   
God I wanted to abandon this project for several reasons, I'm glad I didn't. However, my job doesn't make it easier for me to continue writing - because, well, I am a writer. And I am pretty much writing all day. Difference is, whether you write for big SEO companies and Cryptocurrency crap, or a fanfiction containing the darkest thoughts you have. Unfortunately I only get paid for my tedious job. I'll try to keep updating now regularly, I do not want to let this story go to waste. 
> 
> Thanks for all the kudos and great comments. And thanks for still reading. I really appreciate it. I'd really need someone to kick my butt to keep writing.


	6. Oh, fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little warm up for what is about to happen next.

“A’ight, who’s the one?”

The situation had been dire over the last couple of weeks. None of the legends had dared to speak about it. To speak about _Elliott_. And most worryingly of all, to speak _to him**.**_ Days had passed in silence, in games, in drinking. After the announcement of Elliott’s mother’s illness, laughter had died out. It felt like the fun was over… if you could call blood sports fun after all. But for the legends, the Apex Games had become more than just a _kill-each-other-in-the-most-gory-ways-possible-game _for the amusement of all the _lazy-depraved-and-perverted-typical-viewers_. The Apex Games meant family, to pretty much all of them. Some would openly talk about it, some would acknowledge it in silence, some would deny it in anger (and still be on board) and some – well, _ONE_, would openly embrace it and make the most out of it. The _ONE_ who would always bring them all together, who would make light of the direst situation, who would turn every frown upside down.

And that _ONE_ was currently (as far as everyone knew) all alone in his apartment, depressed and broken over the news of his own mother. _Elliott_.

“I can’t talk to him,” Wraith’s breath caught in her throat. “We didn’t really part in … good … ways.”.

“But, you’re still his best friend,” Nat said, almost matter-of-factly, without the sweet undertone in her gentle voice. “It should be you.”

Silence. Awkward silence. Nobody knew why Lifeline started on this topic today anyway. Still, everybody on the stationary dropship (located just a few miles away from their living quarters – the legends preferred to hang out there since everyone had their little compartment and a common room, which was nice if all of them needed a break from reality) was kind of relieved that she did. Albeit it meant to face the truth of letting Elliott down for _weeks_. It wasn’t like they hadn’t spoken to him in like a few days, but actual weeks and that made it so damn hard to approach this. They all felt some sort of guilt, some more, some less, but still – it was all over their heads. It was written on their faces.

“Someone’s gotta do it. And It certainly won’t be me. I’m not risking my life, who knows what he’s been up to. Building some bombs and shit. Or decoys with bombs on it. Or maybe decoy bombs,” Octane spat out, not even remotely thinking about what he had just said.

The other legends turned to the whirlwind in misbelief, Lifeline’s face twisting into a malicious grin.

“Wouldn’t be the first time you got ya limbs blown off.”

The common room was suddenly filled with heartfelt laughter that abruptly died out shortly after. Octane's joking around resembled that of Elliott's just too much. Everyone fell into unwelcome silence once again. And that silence was like poison to them, for in that void of sound the shallowness of their conversation was laid bare. What used to be all jokes and banter of their everyday lives and comedic moments was utterly vapid.

Wraith sighed, "Fine I-"

"I will attend to it," Bloodhound interrupted Wraith, albeit having lived pretty excluded themselves during the last weeks, merely showing up to the games. So naturally, their intentions were questioned by the others.

Dumbfounded, Wraith furrowed her brows and gazed them up and down. Bloodhound though, turned his head towards her and shot her a - what seemed like - a deadly stare (although no one could tell, thanks to their newly acquired, skull-like alabaster white mask). Wraith wanted to say something in protest (probably something along the lines 'You'd depress Elliott even more' or 'You might give him a heart attack dressed like a cult leader who seems to wear their prey's skull as a trophy' - none of which was true, though, Bloodhound seemed to give away this vibe to pretty much everyone), but decided to just stay silent. If Elliott was hurt and depressed, she might not be the best choice to talk to first anyway. She hadn't texted or called him, because at first, she was just fucking pissed at him. After the big news about Elliott's mother, though, she really wanted to go visit him, clear things up, help her best friend in need. It was at that moment that it became clear to her how much she had missed her best friend. And she was sure that he would have been understanding if only she had reached out to him sooner. But somehow, her pride got in the way, and pride turned into a void and ultimately into avoiding Elliott

“Good good, it’s settled then!” Gibraltar announced. “Hope you’ll get our brudda back on his feet.”

Without saying a word, Bloodhound stood up, his leather cloak worn tight around his body. Voice speaking rough and low. “I will try my best,” they stated, turning towards Wraith. A quiet exhale followed by a long pause. “Unless you disagree with my choice.”

“What?” Wraith mumbled under her breath, trying to stuff down shadowed guilt rushing through her veins. “No. No, it’s fine. Go.”

Bloodhound nodded and excused themself from the group as they turned towards the exit of the dropship, swallowing his own guilt, hoping he had kept up his façade. They were not terrified of the confrontation, but rather… _anxious_, and once they were out of sight from the other legends, they desperately gasped for air. The thought of _actually_ talking to Elliott again after all that had happened made them almost feel nauseous. Nauseous of anger, fear, guilt, and, most of all, _shame_.

Everyone knew Bloodhound was not someone who let emotions get into their way. They were cold but assuring, strict but fair, deadly but honourable. These feelings they were experiencing right now, though, were literally a blast from the past. They could recall a time, long ago, when they had the exact same emotions crawling underneath their skin just waiting to explode… and for a moment, they were hit by a flashback.

\--

_A chilled breath escaped in a puff of smoke, stones and leaves crunched under torn boots, exposing parts of their feet. They glanced down, noticing how their feet and legs were covered in scrapes and gashes, etched in jagged lines. Blood streamed down their body, leaving almost beautiful marks. But it wasn’t their blood. They were wounded, their clothes were torn, but they were not bleeding. How long have they been walking? Where were they? Where were the others?_

_Red streams trickled against crumpled, dead bodies, tinging the colour of the sunset. They scanned their surroundings, the air hung with the scent of singed, burning ash and screams in agony in the distance. They heard a familiar name. Their name. Someone was calling them. In a rush they turned around just quickly enough to spread their arms wide open, an almost lifeless body falling into them, leading both to take a hard fall to the ground, blood splattered across their face. Panic arose, as they could not see the other man’s face, but recognised his uniform. What had happened? Was he still alive? Where were the others? _

_‘Save … him. I beg you, Bloth. Just… save HIM,’ were the final words of the man lying in Bloodhounds arms. And now it dawned on them who the man was. They shivered, drawing their arms around the other man’s body, heart beating loud in their ear before tangling in his throat. They shut their eyes, mouth pressed to a thin line, as tears begin to softly run down his cheek. A hoarse scream left Bloodhound, filling the air with another scream of agony._

\--

He should have confided in her, Elliott realised that now. He should have reached out to – at least – Wraith. Although Elliott was not sure about what was there to forgive about anymore, she would have been forgiving. Over the last weeks, he had, quite frankly, lost it. He certainly remembered Wraith being absolutely fucking pissed about him. He just couldn’t remember the reason. Not that it was important now anyway. There hadn’t been any sign of her, or anyone else – for which he was, somehow thankful, but also sorrowful. He could not decide whether or not he should feel sad now anymore or not – every time he seemed to drown in his emotions, he pictured Wraith and all the good times they had spent together, the banter they had exchanged, the bond they had. Her concern for his well-being after every fight. Wraith, who was practically the closest he still had to a family now, a beautiful and kind soul underneath a hard shell. Her strength and patience had saved his sorry ass more times than he could actually account for.

He kept replaying every scenario from _before _all of this, and every now and then the infamous hunter crossed his mind, but only for seconds, as Elliott tried his best (and yes, his very best) to forget everything about their existence. Hell, if it were for him, he would even forget that they ever crossed his way in the first place. Although Elliott had become too weak to fight his inner demons, he still had the strength to fight every urge to think about Bloodhound ever again. Especially after the cabin’s incident, after Bloodhound said - … well, after they had said the unspeakable. And the more he thought about it, the more he thought about them, the weaker he grew in fighting back the urge to think about them. Was a goddamn paradox.

Every now and then, he would wake up in his bed with a start, jerking against the squeaking mattress. He would clamp a hand over his mouth to muffle a scream leaving his throat. And every time, it would be raw, dry, aching. Naturally, the more he oppressed any thoughts about Bloodhound, the more he would actually think about them. _Dream_ about them. And Elliott was not sure whether these dreams were pure nightmare material or the best thing that had ever happened to him. Because still – after all – Bloodhound was one of a kind. And yes, Elliott was still very, very drawn to them, more than he would ever admit, but he could certainly not deny it. Especially since his subconsciousness would send him _friendly_ and _not-so-friendly_ reminders of Bloodhound from time to time. Reminders that made him whole and broke him apart at the same time. How could they have such a big influence on him, how had it even been possible for falling for them in the first place? How – if Elliott himself did not even understand them, or spent time with them, or actually interacted in the nicest way possible – how on earth was it possible for Elliott Witt to fall for the weirdest human being alive?

And why could he just _not forget about them_ and move on? And since he could not move on, as his behaviour clearly had brought to daylight, how could he ever face them again? Why would he want that? All he wanted was to go back to things had been, months ago, when everything was nice and pretend, when he still had Wraith, when he was still good at the games, when … he only admired Bloodhound from a distant, thinking they would not notice.

All the feelings, guilt, shame, embarrassment – all of it felt like it was eating him alive, gnawing on his bones and sucking out the marrow until there was nothing left of him. And he had been feeling like this for the past couple of weeks, secretly hoping that these feelings would either vanish – _PUFF_ – or actually eat him alive. Yes, that thought crossed his mind. In the end, the most painful feeling he was enduring was the aching in his heart (and Elliott had hoped that _heartbreak _could actually kill him, at least that’s what he told himself over and over again, at home, or in a pub, to himself, or his decoys, to strangers, to god knows whom). But of course, it did not kill him. But this pain was unbearable. It certainly feasted on him day and night. The longing for someone he could never have. Someone who had said … the unspeakable, yet even though Elliott still had no idea how the hunter had known about this – or was it just a coincidence? Oh, for fuck’s sake, what did it matter anyway! Because after all, what Elliott really wanted, what he really needed, was a shoulder to lean on, to cry on. And not anyone’s shoulder, but theirs.

Elliott looked defeated. He sank against the edge of his kitchen sink, his unsteady hands pushing through his unwashed curls clinging to his forehead. His gaze swept in rapid motions, surveying the marble counter, ultimately leading to stare at the knife stand.

_CAW!_

Elliott shrieked in surprise and horror at the same time, causing him to jump to his feet, firmly gripping his shirt above his chest, leaning towards the kitchen counter.

_CAW! CAW!_

He could feel his pulse rapidly increasing, blood rushing through his veins, making him feel dizzy.

Artur. Why was he not surprised to see this goddamn bird again. Was that thing _spying _on him?

‘_Don’t be ridiculous, it’s a raven,’ _his inner voice hollered. ‘_You should be glad, God knows what you would have done with a knife in your hand, lil’ boy,”_ the voice mocked.

Oh fuck. The raven was fucking spying on him. No way he could have just arrived on time when Elliott... What was he really just about to do before he heard Artur outside of his window? Oh fuck.

Another fear rose within, Artur’s appearance certainly meant for something more. _Someone_ more.

“Oh fuck.”

_Knock, knock, knock._

And there it was. Fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is in progress. I wanted to do it all in one, but hey, I live for suspense. Thanks for all the comments and kudo's and making it this far.


End file.
